Vengeance So Sweet
by VyingQuill
Summary: *presently on hold* Fifth year fic; Tourneys, new powers, redemption, scary Death Eaters, ridiculously dangerous spells, and then some...'In me the Dark Lord see's his demise, my power, and my will--
1. The Ever-so-short Prologue that Starts i...

VENGEANCE SO SWEET 

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all other characters, references, and situations belong to J.K Rowling. No copyright infringement intended

**Spoilers:** All four books

**Rating**: PG-13

**Category: **Drama/Action/Adventure

**Summary**: Fifth year fic centered around Harry. With Voldemort's return to power, a struggle begins between the Light and Dark Side. Harry finds himself in quite a few undesirable situations. Suspense, betrayal, Death Eaters, shaky plots to bring down Voldemort, and all sorts of new stuff.

Prologue 

It was summertime.

 That much was obvious, as one would observe, from the soaring temperatures and burning midday sun that beat upon the small town of Surrey. Child after child ran across the streets, shrieking with laughter and carrying sticks of frozen ice, which they licked continually to keep cool. 

Wandering down the orderly maze of streets, one would eventually stumble onto an even more orderly street, lined with still larger and neater houses. At the corner of the block, rising from a tiny square of green grass and perched atop a long wooden stake, was a sign bearing the words 'Privet Drive'.

This neighborhood was empty of most children, the silence so thick that one could hardly dare to cut through. One lone boy, almost fifteen in age, had ventured outside in the smoldering heat. He was bent on one knee in front of a prim flower garden that snaked around the edges of a two-story house, which was painted white with a blue '#4' engraved on the door.

From a distance, his appearance wasn't much to look at: a scrawny boy, with a thin face and an unruly mop of untamable hair, but upon closer inspection, he wasn't half bad looking at all. Quite the contrary, he possessed a strange kind of beauty, with his strong jaw and radiant green eyes, which were lit with some sort of inner glow—pride, one might assume. A thin, flesh-colored scar was etched into his forehead, peeking out from under a fringe of thick, black bangs. His glasses, which looked desperately in need of repair, sat askew on his sweating nose, threatening to slip off and shatter on the sidewalk at any given moment. 

The boy wrapped his browned hands around a tangle of weeds growing amid a circle of tulips and gave a small grunt as he pulled them out. With his right hand, he flung them aside, into a growing pile of junk and unwanted grass, and with his left arm, he quickly wiped the beads of sweat dripping into his eyes.

After a few silent moments of rigorous pulling and tossing, he let out a sigh and fell backwards onto the fresh lawn, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. He expected that his aunt would be after his back if she caught him like this, but the only thing his mind could register was the acute soreness of his muscles.

Sure enough, only seconds later, a shrill voice pierced the silence that he had so eagerly welcomed. "Boy! You had better be finished with that garden by now, or you won't get your lunch!"

A bony, wispy-haired woman, who was at the moment livid with rage, stormed out of the house, a sheet of paper clutched in her fist. "Did you hear me, you ungrateful rat? If you want your meal, go inside before I shut the door in your smirking face. Did you hear me? This is _my_ house, and I will not tolerate your rudeness!"

Startled by the sudden outburst, which had been harsh even for his aunt, Harry dropped his shovel and strode hastily inside, inconspicuously wiping his muddy hands on the inside of his oversized T-shirt.

The slamming of the door and noisy footsteps indicated his aunt's arrival back inside the house. Not wanting to be the target of her bad mood again, he scurried into the kitchen, grabbed his meager lunch (a slice of yellow cheese and a hunk of ham smashed hastily between two stale pieces of bread), and made his ungraceful retreat back into his room (His overweight cousin, Dudley, had been pacing the hallway upstairs, which he now did each day for five minutes as his 'cardiovascular exercise').

As he looked around the poorly furnished room, he took in the few, but unusual, details of it. A heavy-looking chestnut colored trunk was wedged into a tight corner, the bristles of a broomstick sticking out from behind it. A thin, dusty stick of black wood was flung carelessly on his desk, next to a pot of black ink and a feather quill. His darting eyes finally settled on his bed, where a snowy white owl was perched, a paper bag grasped firmly in its beak.

"Hedwig!" Harry noted, a surprised look spreading across his face at the first welcome sight he had had all day. He broke off a portion of the sandwich, letting his owl nibble on it before turning his attention to the paper bag.

A thick sheaf of letters, all with Harry's name on the front, but in various degrees of messiness, spilled out. He picked up one of the letters gingerly with his index finger and thumb, not wanting to smear mud over the crisp white envelope. Making a small noise of impatience, he dropped the letter and studied his mud-encrusted hands before slipping out of his room, careful to avoid Dudley, who was still trundling through the halls.

"Gods, I'd better not risk meeting up with Aunt Petunia again," Harry muttered to himself as he tip-toed quietly down the stairs. "But what needs to be done needs to be done…" He entered the kitchen, and began heading towards the half-closed bathroom door next to the iron-wrought bookshelf guarding the hallway opening.

Strangely enough, his Uncle Vernon wasn't seated at the table, eating his usual lunch of meatballs and chicken, as he usually was at such an hour. Instead, all he saw was a bare dining table, with a single piece of folded paper sitting in the middle. Curiosity overpowering his cautiousness, he grabbed the paper, stuffed it into his pocket, and sprinted the rest of the way to the washroom.

Turning on the tap, he gave his hands a rough wash before drying them with a purple towel hanging from a nearby rack. Then, his heart beating in his ears, he stole back into his bedroom, unnoticed by any occupant of the house. For the next few hours, nothing in the house on number four Privet Drive stirred, until Harry Potter emerged from his room, a disturbed and pale look on his face. 


	2. Part One: In Which Arthur Weasley Makes ...

* * *

* * *

* * *

* * *

**Chapter One: In Which Arthur Weasley Makes His Grand Appearance  **

Harry let out a low growl and flipped over on his stomach so that the side of his face pressed against the pillow and he could see the glowing numbers on his luminescent alarm clock. 

Upon seeing the time, he let out another groan, louder than the previous, and squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to go back to sleep. 

When that, inevitably, failed, he sat up slowly in his bed, careful not to make it creak too much, and swung his legs over the sides. He groped blindly around his desk until he bumped into his glasses. Then he awkwardly attempted to put them on while fumbling for his wand. 

_"Lumos_," Harry said. A small circle of light, just enough to read by, momentarily blinded him. _"Accio letters_." A whoosh of wind past his ear…then, a soft _flump as a brown paper bag landed on the pillow next to him. Almost mechanically, he pulled out the letters, feeling his heart sag as he unsnapped the elastic rubber band that held them together. _

He had read the letters as soon as he had gotten them earlier in the day (of _course he had, he had nearly choked in anticipation), but he hoped to pick up a few more clues by reviewing the material again. Harry pulled out the worn piece of parchment from the ripped envelope that he had opened only a few hours ago. _

---------------------------------------------------------------

_Harry,_

_Don't come to the Burrow this summer. Dad's disappeared. I don't reckon you'll hear from me anytime soon. It's no use writing back._

Ron 

_------------------------------------------_

_Hi Harry,_

_Have you heard from Ron yet? He's a bit down._

Harry snorted loudly at the understatement, then resumed his reading. 

 _I don't blame him at all. I bet it's You-Know-Who that got Mr. Weasley…we can just hope that he's still alive. I'm doing fine—none of those phony predictions that Trelawney  made has happened yet. Make sure to do your homework,  Harry, and don't do anything you will regret—DON'T GO OUT LOOKING FOR MR. WEASLEY. I know you're wondering what the answer to number two on our Potions assignment is—it's Brazentongue.  Consider it a small gift from me to help your summer._

Harry couldn't help but smile—it was just like Hermione to know which questions he would have trouble with. 

_Love,_

_From Hermione_

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Mr. Harold James Potter- From the Desk of the Minister of Magic 

_For your own safety, and the safety of others, it will serve you well to remember not to spread rumors on the rise of You-Know-Who. Your insecurities, need for attention, and crazed mind should not influence the work and lives of the many other wizards in the world. You will be reminded that none of your past behaviors is to be accepted on your coming term at Hogwarts. A similar letter has been owled to Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. Good day, and a pleasant summer to you._

Cornelius Fudge 

313th Minister of Magic

Order of Merlin, First Class 

_Harry,_

_I'm back in the country. Things are urgent—top secret, but Albus needs me right now. I trust you'll watch your back. Cedric's parents have gotten over the initial shock of Cedric's death—they forgive you, Harry, and you must know that nothing is your fault (__How did he know what I was thinking? Harry wondered). __I promise I'll take care of you. Watch out for anything suspicious, and write me constantly so I'll know everything's alright._

_Your lovable mutt,_

Snuffles 

Harry slowly shoved the letters back into the bag, and brought out the last piece of bad news—in the form of a letter that he had found on the Dursleys' dining table. 

------------------------------------------------------

Mr. &Mrs. Dursley 

_Number 4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging, _

_Surrey_

_It is with our deepest sympathies and greatest sorrow that we inform you that Grunnings is to be closed down. Due to lack of business, disinterest and money shortage, we are forced to lay off all our workers and partners. Your Grunnings' stock account of approximately 5,000 pounds has been deleted and is now lost, and the company car you have borrowed is to be returned at the old Grunnings office tomorrow by noon. _

_Our sorrows are yours._

Harry didn't bother to read the long list of fancy signatures and names that filled the bottom half of the paper. Instead, he flipped immediately to the backside, where, written in Uncle Vernon's immaculate handwriting was 

Petunia—

I don't know if we have the money to stay within budget. You know how much it is to keep everything running and paid for on Privet Drive. I need to find a new job, but chances are slim. Things will need to be sold. I have a bidder on our house already, and I entrust you the task of organizing a garage sale for our unnecessary belongings, including Dudley's things and ours. 

All my love,

Vernon Dursley.

"No wonder he wasn't home today," Harry said slowly to himself. "And that's why Aunt Petunia looked so stricken earlier…" 

He looked forlornly at his bedspread for a split second before shrugging. "Oh well, not that it means anything to me…if anything, it'll be fun watching Dudley go for a day without a Playstation or his big-screen TV…" He managed a slight grin; the news Ron had brought him still weighed heavily on his mind.

_Dad's disappeared…I'll bet You-Know-Who had something to do with it… Harry shook his head slightly as the same haunting words kept surfacing in his mind. "I can't do anything about it," he reminded himself. More to keep himself busy than anything else, he pulled out a piece of parchment from under his pillow, dipped his feather quill into the pot of ink, and began scribbling out letters._

********

The sun rose slowly at five o'clock the next day, greeting a tired-looking Harry Potter, who had just sent Hedwig out with a stack of letters. Almost immediately after he shut his window, he flopped onto his bed and dozed off. 

In the distance, gaining speed rapidly, was a small white owl, carrying a worn brown paper sack tied loosely onto its leg. The letters in the bag were addressed to various recipients, ending with a barely legible note to the Ministry. 

_Ron,_

_I know you told me not to write you, but since when have I been someone who listened to what other people told me to do? Don't worry too much about your dad, Dumbledore'll have him back in no time. Sirius wrote me yesterday—he's back. I hope he watches himself and doesn't get caught—that would be a disaster. The Dursleys have gone bankrupt (well, kind of), and they're selling the house. That should give you a laugh…maybe Dudley'll actually lose some weight now that they don't have all that much money to buy food . Great, even less for me. I reckon I'll see you at Diagon Alley when we get supplies._

_Harry_

_----------------------------------------------------_

_Hermione,_

_Thanks for the answer, I really needed that. I just wrote Ron, and he'd better write me back, that git, even though he said he wouldn't. Have you seen Krum over vacation? Write back with more news, and maybe a copy or two of the Daily Prophet. It would help if I could keep up with the wizarding world. _

_Harry_

_---------------------------------------------------------------_

_My lovable mutt, Snuffles,_

_What are you doing back in country? It's dangerous!_

_Harry_

_P.S-Go away while you still can!_

_----------------------------------------------------------------_

_Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic,_

_I wasn't making up any of the things that happened last year. If you really are as thick as you are acting, the wizarding  world will be destroyed in a matter of seconds. Voldemort, yes, Voldemort, is back, as I'm sure the Headmaster has told you. Just you wait and see._

_Sincerely, Harry Potter_

_P.S-I don't find trouble, trouble finds me, so don't hope for much out of my behavior next year. _

_Sincerely, Sincerely, The Boy Who Lived _

*********************** 

"Do we have to?" Dudley whined, staring up at his mother with tearful eyes. 

"I'm sorry, Diddy Duddykins, but we can't leave it by itself—we must keep the house clean for the buyers…" Petunia trailed off, then turned her head away as she let out a loud sniff and wiped away a few tears trickling down her rouged cheeks. 

"Yes, I am the 'it'," Harry muttered sadistically under his breath as Petunia finally managed to hush Dudley's persistent hollering. 

"We'd better get going," Vernon grunted, tapping his foot impatiently as his wife finished dusting imaginary dirt off Dudley's wide bottom. 

Petunia immediately stopped what she was doing, looked up fearfully, and scampered out of the house, Dudley at her tail. Vernon shot a deathly look at Harry, who looked back at him with a mock-innocent smile glued to his face. 

"What?"

As his Uncle's face began turning rapidly purple, Harry decided it best for his health to follow his Aunt Petunia's example, and dashed quickly out the open door. Aunt Petunia and Dudley were already seated in an old station wagon (Vernon had returned the company car the day before), with Petunia in the front and Dudley in the back, barely leaving room for Harry. 

He struggled to squish into the miniscule space that Dudley didn't take up, and failed miserably as the door slammed on his toe when he attempted to shut it. Vernon whipped around and instantly began yelling at Harry. 

"Boy, be grateful for what we gave you, out of the little we still have!" he roared, slamming his hand down on the steering wheel to punctuate his point. Next to him, cowering in the corner, Aunt Petunia attempted to emulate him, slapping her hand on the dashboard, then wincing in pain. 

Swallowing as hard as he could, Harry shoved himself into Dudley's bulky side and pulled the door shut, just as Dudley shifted in his seat, smacking Harry's face right into the window. 

And so, the junky station wagon  pulled out of the still prim looking number four Privet Drive, with four people in tow; a beefy man, with a red face, taking off down the road at unbelievable speeds, a skinny woman with eyes glued shut in pain as she held on tight to the seatbelt, a massive boy in the backseat, looking perfectly contented as he munched on a half-melted candy bar he found under the seat, and a small, black-haired boy, face turned sideways and stuck to the car window.

*************************

"Yes Mr. Dursley, eight hundred dollars a month," the real estate agent said lazily, checking his already-spotless fingernails. 

Harry sighed. _Not again. _

"Don't you think I _know that, you imbecile? I asked if there were any discounts for—for—for—people like me!!!!" Vernon shouted, narrowing his eyes in a menacing way. "If you're going to be that INCREDIBLY IDIOTIC, I'd be just as well not purchasing from you, you GREAT BIG EXCUSE FOR A DONKEY!!" _

Harry groaned inaudibly as the Dursleys, plus him, dragged themselves back into the station wagon for the twentieth time that day. 

Once back in the car, Vernon had calmed down a bit and had managed to plaster a fake smile across his face. "Well, seems like this house isn't—er—good enough for us. Let's just move on and see…" he held a copy of 'The Weekly House Hunter' up to his nose and studied down the page, finally jabbing his index finger at a shabby-looking flat on the bottom right corner. "This ought to be nice…perfectly within budget, and so tastefully decorated…"

Eagerly, Petunia pulled herself up next to him, anticipating the house, before her face fell faster than a baking soufflé as she saw the dreary little picture accompanying the lavish description below it ('Beautiful, cozy apartment in Seneca Rollings, Surrey, surrounded by a square of green grass…') 

Harry barely managed to smother his snort of laughter as Petunia settled back into her seat, a sour pout forming across her wrinkled, prune-like skin. 

**********************************

A tree lashed out at his face, leaving a deep red welt where it had connected across the milky white flesh. The brilliant white moon in the dark sky shone undaunted,  its pure whiteness holding its own even against the downy snow coating the rocky terrain. A cruel gust of wind whipped through forest, causing his threadbare jacket to flutter in the breeze. His breath coming in ragged chokes now, he stopped and leaned heavily against an old acorn tree, struggling to cool the burning in his lungs. His arms hung limply at his sides, his feet were slightly spread eagled, and he had a thin, bony frame, giving him the appearance of a rundown scarecrow with no crows to scare away. 

He ran a half-numbed hand through his thinning red hair, relishing the slight warmth that came with the motion. Cupping his hands over his mouth, he blew roughly, trying to spare his fingers from frostbite. 

His mind was in a strange sort of frenzy as it registered the past events. 

He had been sitting at his desk, sipping coffee and browsing through reports of harsh Muggle treatment when the sudden urge to take a walk had come about. Dropping his coffee immediately into the trashbin, he had stood up, and strode to the door. Once outside, he walked blindly through the forest surrounding the Ministry of Magic Headquarters, not once looking where he was going as he plunged further into the spreading darkness. Through the pitch black, he could see a pinprick of red coming from within a cluster of bushes, and then he had blacked out. When he had come to his senses, he found himself sprawled over a mound of rubble, with a tingling sensation lingering around his toes and fingertips. 

After carefully observing his surroundings, he had gotten up and begun stumbling through the bitter coldness, desperate to find a way out of wherever he was.

He lifted his brown eyes slowly to the navy blue sky, as if the answer to his problems was illuminated in the stars. Slumping against the tree, he allowed his body to slide to the ground— let his overwhelming fatigue take him away into the merciful blackness.   


	3. Part Two: Headfirst Into Mashed Potatoes...

* * *

* * *

**The Rules of Chess**

**Author**: VyingQuill

**Spoilers**: All four books

R**ating**: PG-13

**Category**: Drama/Action/Adventure

**Summary**: Fifth year fic centered around Harry. With Voldemort's return to power, a struggle begins between the Light and Dark Side. Harry finds himself in quite a few undesirable situations. Suspense, betrayal, Death Eaters, shaky plots to bring down Voldemort, and all sorts of new stuff.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter Two: Headfirst Into Mashed Potatoes

Things were rather dreary in the Weasley household. It was as though a muffler had been wrapped around the Burrow, isolating it from the rest of the countryside. 

Even the occasional howl and scream from the attic ghoul failed to startle any member of the family or cause them jump out of their reverie. 

Mrs. Weasley was staring off at the whitewashed wall as she slowly prodded a pan of sausage with her wand, unaware of the burning smell that filled the room. 

Ron Weasley lay face-up on his bright Chudley Cannons bedspread, throwing a ball unenthusiastically into the air and failing to notice when it came right down and smacked him on the nose. 

Ginny Weasley sat slouching by her desk, head buried in her arms, muttering fast and furious as she continued slumbering.

Fred and George Weasley were both locked up in their room, being unnaturally still. 

Bill Weasley wasn't home, but was currently moping around in his office at Gringotts.

Charlie Weasley wasn't home either, but narrowly fell off a dragon he was attempting to ride in his preoccupied state. 

And Arthur Weasley was missing. His dial on the kitchen clock rested on 'mortal peril', as it had been for the past three days. Ginny, Mrs. Weasley, Ron, Fred, and George's dials were all smashed together on 'depression'. 

Two new dials had been added onto the clock over the past year, one reading 'Harry Potter' and one 'Hermione Granger.' Both of those were rested contentedly at 'home.' 

*************************

"We're here," Vernon declared as brightly as he could, flinging the door open and stepping in as if he were escorting the Queen of England herself into the shabby flat they—or rather, _he_— had decided to rent. 

Petunia's sharp eyes took in all the details of the drab room in a single second, but she clapped her hands together in forced joy as she stood on her tip-toes to give her husband a peck on the cheek. 

Dudley barely managed to squeeze through the narrow doorway (with a bit of help from Harry, who was right behind him). "Is this it? We're gonna live here?" Dudley grunted, piggy eyes filling rapidly with tears as he plopped onto a rickety chair next to the wall. The chair's spindly legs wobbled dangerously, but held. 

"Oh, Dudders, it's okay. Mummy will fix it up and make it all better for you, okay honey? Just give me a week and everything will be brand new," Petunia doted, giving Dudley an over-exaggerated hug. 

Harry wrinkled his nose at the scene. Even _he_ had to admit that the house was nothing short of downright filthy, but he held the thought to himself. 

"I'm going to explore," he finally said to his uncle after a few silent moments of standing awkwardly under the doorframe. Vernon grunted loudly to acknowledge the statement, and promptly shoved Harry outside before shutting the door. 

"Thank you," Harry said politely to the door, which stared blankly back at him. 

_Oh, that's it. I'm losing it. Doors don't stare…_ Harry set off down the street after casting a final dark look at the offending object.

It was a beautiful day, despite the heat. The sky was a soft light blue, marred only by a few fluffy white clouds that drifted about lazily. Birds trilled their song atop the many oak trees surrounding the neighborhood, while squirrels contented themselves by dashing around the bases of trees, cheeks stuffed with acorns. 

Harry reached the end of the block, and took a left turn onto another street, having no idea where he was going but just wanting to get as far away from the Dursleys as possible. His Quidditch-honed eyesight caught a sharp, sudden movement from a nearby patch of bushes. Forcing a nonchalant expression onto his face, he stuffed his hands into his pockets, whistling, while pretending he hadn't noticed a thing. 

As he walked a few more paces, he saw a small, lithe figure dart out from the bushes and disappear behind another bunch of vegetation. It continued on in similar fashion until Harry had retraced his steps and ended up in front of the Dursleys' place. 

He stopped dead in the middle of the street, an irritated look on his face. "Look, I don't know who you are, but would you just please come out already? Please?"

A small gasp split the air, and the rustling from behind a large fern frond increased, as if the occupant were now shivering uncontrollably. 

Harry watched interestedly as a messy brown head emerged from behind the frond, followed by the pasty looking face of a young boy, obviously ruffled by Harry's bluntness. 

No words were exchanged between the two, but Harry could feel the boy's heavy-lidded eyes upon him, studying. 

"So, you de famous Harry Potter," he said hastily, shifting nervously from side to side. 

"Excuse me?" 

"You de famous Harry Potter, right? De one dat defeated de Dark Lord and saved our world? Aren't you? I can see your scar." The boy pointed brashly at the thin, flesh colored scar beneath Harry's thick bangs. 

Harry reached up instinctively to pull his bangs over the scar. "Yes, I'm Harry. Who are you? Are you a wizard?"

"I'm Deodore, but my friends call me Deo—" the boy's face drooped despairingly. "If I had any, that is."

"Your name's Deo?"

"No, its _Deo," _the boy repeated. 

Harry wrinkled his nose, in deep thought before a small smile lit up his features. "Oh, you mean Theodore, don't you?" 

The boy, Theo, nodded eagerly. "Yea, my name's Deo."

"How old are you, Theo?" Harry asked slowly.

Theo flashed all ten of his fingers. 

"Ten?"

Theo nodded, messy brown hair falling into his eyes. 

"So, _are _you a wizard?" Harry pressed, feeling the boy quail under his suspicious stare. 

Theo gulped audibly. "My family is, but my ole granmum reckons I'm a Squib—haven't shown any magical abilities yet, and still haven't godden a Howarts ledder—or a ledder from any uder magical school…Still, my birdday hasn't come up yet…it's in two days!" he finished proudly. 

Harry nodded understandingly. "Well, have a good birthday. I hope you get accepted into—oh, what school do you want to go into?"

"Hogwarts," was the swift and sure reply. 

"That's where I go," Harry said, smiling as Theo's mouth dropped open in jealousy. "Starting my fifth year. What's your surname?"

"Lestrange. I'm Deodore Lestrange." Theo glanced quickly over his shoulder, then focused back on the older boy in front of him. 

_Lestrange, Lestrange…where have I heard that before? _Harry pondered, squinting his eyes together in thought. "Wait—Are your parents—by any chance—in Azkaban?" 

Theo suddenly looked very vulnerable, on the verge of tears. "I'm living with my grandma…she says Mummy has been a bad girl, and they took her away…she says I won't see her for a long time…" A blank, closed look came over his face, and a hand flew to his mouth, as if he were afraid that he had said too much. Before Harry could do anything, Theo was dashing madly down the street, leaping over trash cans and hurtling over curbs like a wild beast.

Harry didn't put up a chase, but stared until Theo was no more than a speck in the distance before turning around and plodding up the Dursleys' small and unkempt driveway. 

*********************

Hermione Granger slipped into a flowered skirt and a white tank top, attempting to fix her hair into a messy ponytail while at the same time trying to button up the tank top with her left hand. After spending quite a while wrestling with masses of frizzy hair, she managed to stuff it all up into a tight ponytail at the top of her head. Humming softly to herself, she skipped down the stairs and burst into the light-flooded kitchen, which was empty. Her parents had been called down to the dentists' office on account of an unexpected emergency (something about inexperienced nurses and rusty equipment). 

She was looking forward to a day of peace and quiet, sitting on the front patio with a rousing story on her lap and a tall glass of iced lemonade set next to her. Just as she was grabbing a lemon from the fridge, she heard a familiar tapping noise from the window behind her. She instantly dropped the lemon on the kitchen counter and opened the window, allowing a snowy white owl to waddle in. 

"Hedwig!" Hermione noted, a pleasantly surprised look spreading across her face. Cooing softly, Hedwig allowed Hermione to dismantle the letter from her talon before flying forcefully out the window. 

"Harry could at least have the sense to teach her some manners," Hermione muttered disdainfully as she set the letter aside, for the time being, to finish preparing her lemonade. 

******************

_Got—to—keep—going… _the man staggered weakly against a large tree, blinking rapidly to blot out the bright sunlight that flooded his vision. _Must—make—it…_Just ahead, he could make out a large house, where he might be able to rest a bit. It took every last bit of energy and resolve he had to make it across the rocky street and up the driveway of the house. A quick glance around the front porch told him immediately that it was a 

Muggle home. He would have to be careful and keep himself as inconspicuous as possible. 

With a fragile, shaking hand, he rapped softly on the door, nearly collapsing with the effort. Four days of wandering helpless, cold, and ragged in a dark forest had done his already tired body no good. The last thing he remembered before sinking out of consciousness was a girl standing over him, a shocked look on her face.

*****************

Hermione gave a small sigh of satisfaction as she took a tentative sip of her freshly squeezed lemonade. She grabbed a book sitting on the table nearby (_House Elves and the Like_, by Lance Shortleg), and, ice clinking cheerfully in the tall glass, made her way slowly to the front door, careful not to soil the carpet in any way. Before she reached the door, however, a faint knock rang out, as if the person knocking were afraid to break something. Setting the load in her arms on a jutting shelf, she opened the door, expecting a group of girls selling chocolates, or a salesman advertising a new perfume line. What she came face-to-face with made her heart freeze in her chest. 

"Mr. Weasley?" she breathed wonderingly, watching in horror as his weather-beaten body slammed onto the wooden porch.

*********

Mrs. Weasley gave a small gasp and promptly slid the burnt sausages on the frying pan into the garbage bin, which was already full of blackened sausages from previous meals. Her tear-swollen eyes followed as Mr. Weasley's dial on the clock moved from 'mortal peril' and landed right on top of 'Hermione's home'. 

She stared blankly at the long black dial before her jaw dropped open and she fled into the living room, screams of 'He's safe!' and 'Thank the Lord!' falling from her dry lips. 

People from miles around could hear the clamor that erupted from the Burrow. 

*******************

"Back so soon?" Uncle Vernon leered at Harry, who got the impression that friendly conversation wasn't what his uncle was after. 

"I'll go right out if you want me to," Harry suggested, trying his best to avoid confrontation. He spun around on his heel and was about to saunter out the door when a tight hand clamped onto his bony frame. 

"I don't think so. As long as you're here and this house needs fixing up, you'll be the fixer-upper. Any questions?" A ruthless glint had appeared in Vernon's eye, and his voice was no more than a raspy whisper. 

Harry shuddered under Vernon's firm grasp before managing a slight shake of his head. 

"Good. You'll get started on plastering and painting the walls starting from today. No breaks, work hours are from nine in the morning to six at night. Two meals a day." Vernon narrowed his eyes pointedly at Harry, awaiting an answer.

"Wh-what, no pay?" Harry squeaked, without thinking. Immediately, he knew that he would've easily given up half his Gringotts gold, and his broomstick as well, to take back his rashly spoken words. 

Vernon's face flushed red with anger.

"Do you not understand my family's financial situation? Two meals is more than enough for your pay, unless you'd rather be wandering in the streets looking for jobs." With that, Uncle Vernon stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

Harry collapsed into a nearby chair, burying his head into his arms resignedly.

_Another summer, even more work to be done._ With Uncle Vernon's demanding work routine, he would be on an even tighter schedule for his schoolwork. 

Five minutes later, Vernon strode back into the house, buckets of paints, rollers, and plaster tucked under his arm. He looked amiable enough as he whistled a little ditty before his be-mean-to-Harry mode fully kicked in and his big face got red again. 

"Your supplies. I expect you to throw yourself wholeheartedly into your work. No messes, or you're cleaning." Vernon flung the supplies forcefully at his nephew before disappearing into the kitchen. 

Harry slowly picked up the fallen supplies, arranging them into a neat pile before picking them up and storing them in the closet. A dull thunking noise at the window caught his attention. He lifted his overcast green eyes to see a boy waving wildly from behind the thin layer of glass. 

Theodore! It had been a mere ten minutes since he had run off after their unusual meeting, and here he was again. 

Harry's face lit up with recognition, and he moved towards the door. Before he could open it, however, Theodore was halfway down the street, running once more.  

"Strange kid…stalking me, then running off like I was stalking _him_." Harry ran a hand through his messy hair. 

Theodore was a puzzle all unto himself, and that frustrated him. He disliked dealing with anything that he couldn't decipher and lay out in pieces in front of him. And right now, Theodore's jigsaw was missing quite a few pieces. 

*******************

Albus carefully regarded the man sitting across from him. "Sirius. Good to see you again. Do you have news for me?"

Faint traces of a grin split across the ex-convict's face. "Arthur's been found. Hermione owled in with a detailed letter." Leaning forward slightly, he slid the parchment across the wooden desk. "That's not all. Seems like the bloke can't remember anything that happened within the last three days."

"A Memory Charm perhaps?" Albus prodded soothingly, piercing eyes skimming the letter.

"To tell the truth, we really don't know. Moody's tried to break through the Memory Charm but it's just not working. We've tried Veritaserum—Snape had a vial in his potion stores, and all Arthur ended up telling us was what happened the day before he disappeared—private things, mind you, that we don't particularly care to know…" 

Dumbledore raised a bushy eyebrow before proceeding with his interrogation. "Fascinating…Have you heard from Harry as of late?"

"Not for a week now. The last letter he sent in told me about the Dursleys going bankrupt, and something about moving to a new—cheaper—home," Sirius admitted, twiddling his thumbs nervously. 

The old man gazed sullenly at Sirius for a long moment before letting out a quivering sigh. "Terrible news, Sirius."

"How so?" 

"The protective barriers and Shadowing Charms around 4 Privet Drive…They are not present at Harry's new location. To complicate things further, we'll have to—"  
  
  


"Alert Arabella," Sirius nodded curtly. "Will she need to move closer to Harry?"

Dumbledore, without responding, sent Sirius a look that clearly said 'yes'. 

"I'll write to Harry asking the address as soon as I get back to Remus's," Sirius said hastily, scooting his chair back. Both men rose from their seats and shook hands briefly, thus ending their conversation. 

"I expect Hagrid will report to you soon with more information?" Sirius questioned upon reaching the door. 

"He's due today."

"Oh." A bit abashed, Sirius slipped out of the Headmaster's office, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding in. 

After all these years, he still couldn't face his old Headmaster without feeling that same anxiousness rack his body. All too clearly he could remember the days he had spent back when he was a schoolboy…

_"Do you think it's worked?" James whispered excitedly to Sirius._

_"Hold on…wait…oh yeah, it's worked all right," Sirius said, grinning wickedlyat James. Both boys stared intently at the Slytherin table, as if expecting the Slytherins to sprout wings any second. And, of course, within five seconds, a popping noise rent the air, followed by two shrill, girlish screams. Two Slytherins, namely Severus Snape and Lucius Malfoy, rose into the air, each sporting a pair of sparkly white wings. _

_"Time for the fun to begin," Sirius cackled, whipping out his wand. Next to him, he could feel James do the same thing. _

_"Where should I send Malfoy?" James wondered aloud, cocking his head slightly. He waved his wand to the left, pointing it straight at a protruding banner. Malfoy, a look of panic on his face, sped instantly to where James was pointing his wand. At the last minute, James jerked his wand away and pointed it at the ceiling. High above him, Lucius was just about to crash into the banner when he turned upwards and went speeding towards the ceiling._

_"Malfoy didn't deserve that bout of mercy," Sirius managed to say between fits of laughter. "My turn. Poor old Snape will hate me forever…whoops, too late for that, isn't it?" He directed his wand at a large cauldron of mashed potatoes sitting in the middle of the Ravenclaw table. With a hoarse yell, Snape began speeding towards the bowl, and finally fell head first into the mixture. _

_"Snape should be grateful; at least it was a soft landing," James grinned as Sirius directed his wand at Professor Flitwick. Snape's head instantly emerged from the bowl, covered in mashed potatoes, and he began zooming towards the unfortunate Professor, who realized what was happening a minute to late. Snape crashed into Professor Flitwick, sending him flying head over heels into the staff table. _

_For the next few moments, both boys enjoyed maneuvering and directing the Slytheirins **Slytherins** wherever they pleased, until a light tap on the arm startled Sirius. _

_He turned around, finding himself staring into the probing eyes of Albus Dumbledore._

_"H-Headmaster!" Sirius stuttered, quickly stowing the wand in his robes. James followed suit. Behind them, the Slytherins immediately crashed to the stone floor, wings gone. _

_"Pray tell me what you are doing," Dumbledore said in a deceptively innocent tone._

_"Er…we were just…er…minding our business when Snape and Malfoy over there—"Sirius gestured vaguely at the spot where the two victims were crumpled. "Suddenly flew into the air and started moving around—we were just watching, really, like everyone else…"_

_"Oh, I'm quite sure you were, Mr. Black. Is this truly what happened?" Albus continued, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement and knowing. _

_"How can you doubt us?" James intervened, putting on his best 'I'm innocent' look. Dumbledore smiled a bit._

_"Well then, I bid you good day," Dumbledore said formally before walking briskly back to his seat at the head of the staff table. _

_"I can't believe hebought that!" James exclaimed as soon as Dumbledore was out of hearing range._

_"I dunno…I can't help but feel like he knew what we had done, I mean, the way he was _looking _at us," Sirius said slowly, receiving an agreeing nod from James. _

A hot, wet lump rose in the back of Sirius's throat as the memories swept over his entire being, engulfing him in all their fierceness—how he remembered the days with the Marauders—longed to be with them once more, whole and complete again—James—God, how he missed James—how he seemed to know every thought that Sirius was thinking, every move he was going to make—and Remus, not the worried, burdened Remus, but a light carefree one, possessing wisdom beyond his years, who, occasionally, lent a hand to sort out the kinks in James and Sirius's master schemes. A savage, inhuman growl ripped from Sirius's throat as he thought about Peter. 

Professor McGonagall, who was passing, gave Sirius an alarmed look as he bared his teeth to no one in particular.

"Are you alright, Sirius?" she asked in a concerned, motherly manner. 

Sirius snapped back into reality, smiling sheepishly at McGonagall. "Er…sorry, Professor…just a toothache, I really need to visit one of those Muggle dentists—I'll just be off, won't I? No need to see me out, I know the way—" Sirius continued blubbering until he finally reached the Hogwarts Entrance Hall and slipped outside, where he promptly fell silent. 

McGonagall stared at the spot Sirius was previously standing on, a puzzled, bewildered look on her face. 

"I worry about that boy," she muttered, forgetting he was now a fully grown wizard. 

**(A/N: Remember, McGonagall already knows about Sirius being innocent. Let's pretend that all the other teachers currently weren't in Hogwarts except for her, so it was safe for Sirius to just walk down the hallways and not worry about being seen.)**

*********************(Back at the DursleysHarry's been doing some 'maid-work'…)

"Darned paint," Harry muttered through clenched teeth as he, in a futile attempt to dispel his anger, kicked a half-full paint can across the dank room. What he succeeded in, however, was providing himself with more work, as the contents of the can distributed themselves on various pieces of furniture, as well as the floor. 

It had been a week and a half since the Dursleys had moved into the apartment on Seneca Rolling.

_A long, tiring week and a half, _Harry mused, letting his eyes drift over the numerous brushes, rollers, wallpaper, and paint cans strewn across the concrete floor. He, for his part, had been busily tidying up the house while all Dudley did was sit on the couch, complaining (the only reason he wasn't eating was because Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had decided to cut back on food spending ). On the occasion when he was allowed a short break or when he decided to sneak out, he always ran into Theo, who plagued him like some sort of mysterious sickness that vanished upon diagnosis. 

Despite the way Theo unnerved him, he still enjoyed his brisk strolls around the block, and, with the thought of fresh air instead of paint-infused fumes to breathe in, he quietly slipped outside, stained clothes and all. 

The weather was fair, much to Harry's pleasure. A rustle in the bushes next to where he was standing told him that Theo was back. 

"You can come out now," Harry said, trying to disguise the venom in his voice. 

Theo emerged from the thick brush when he was beckoned. He stood before Harry, shifting uneasily from either foot. 

"Can you tell me _this _time why you keep following me?" Harry didn't expect to get a proper response. 

As always, Theo shot off down the road, without another look back. 

And Harry, as always, didn't bother following. He had convinced himself that he was far too busy to deal with any more things, but he couldn't shake off that little niggling feeling that said he was afraid of what he would find if he followed Theo. 

*********

Peaceful snores kept Harry awake all night. As the apartment was really very small, any sound could be heard through the paper-thin walls. There were only two rooms anyways. Harry gave Dudley, who was sleeping in a bed next to his couch, a disgusted look. A dreamy smile was plastered on his cousin's face; Harry could almost see the 'Dudley-dreams' floating above the porky head. 

At about midnight (_the witching hour, _Harry thought nervously), he got up from his makeshift 'bed' and unlocked the rusty door. There was no Theo to bother him now—why would the boy be awake at such an hour?

He set off down the road, cold air rushing headlong into his face, waking him sufficiently. At first, he could barely make out the vaguest of black shapes in front of him, but gradually his vision adjusted to the inky night.

Just as he lowered himself into a nearby bench, a figure darted out from a grove of trees, waving a bright flashlight wildly to and fro. 

"Theo?" Harry surmised, mentally slapping himself for letting his guard down. He squinted into the yellow light. The boy was smiling, not viciously, but the eerie flashlight glow lent an inhumane undertone to the innocent boyish face.

"Follow me, Harry Potter," Theo said, voice unusually steady. The flashlight in his hands wavered before he spun around and dashed down the road.

_Should I follow, just this once? Find out where he's going? Maybe…But it's midnight, I might get lost…Still, I won't be long…and shouldn't Gryffindors be brave, courageous, and all that? _Harry debated about this for a while before his curiosity took over. Using his natural agility and speed, he took off after Theo. 

Theo had already managed to put a large distance between him and his pursuer. As hard as Harry ran, Theo was still a mere black speck in the distance.

_Damn, he can run fast, _he thought, resorting to extreme words to express his rather strong emotions.

When Harry was sure he would sooner die of exhaustion before catching up to Theo, the boy slowed to a steady walk, as if waiting for him. 

"Where are you going?" Harry hobbled down the street, clutching a growing stitch in his side.

Theo glanced back at Harry, a knowing look on his face as he pointed a finger further down the road and increased his pace to a jog. Heaving a sigh, Harry resumed his running, taking in deep breaths of the chilly night air to calm his burning lungs.

Only paces in front of Harry now, Theo slowed once more as he rounded a corner and ducked into a one-story house, which was almost collapsing from lack of care. 

Harry stepped in after Theo, shutting the wooden door behind him. A series of dull thumping noises followed the initial click.

Harry whipped around, cold dread sinking into the pit of his stomach as he watched a dozen locks on the door invisibly, magically, twist and bolt shut. The faint taste of iron formed in his mouth and his pulse quickened. His already sweaty palms dampened even further.

Willing himself to walk further into the room, instead of running off to a corner and cowering, or throwing himself against the door, he discovered Theo sitting quite placidly on the moth-eaten couch, which sagged under his slight weight. A sweet, sugary smile grazed Theo's lips as he turned to face Harry.

"W-where am I? Where did you take me?" Harry spat, surprising even himself with how fierce and demanding he sounded. 

The astonishment registered on Theo's youthful face, but vanished abruptly.

"You knew I was a Lestrange, and still you followed," he said softly, staring at Harry with dark eyes.

"Answer my question," Harry plowed on stubbornly.

"Master said you were foolhardy, but I never thought this much, surely the plan would fail, that's what I said…" Harry noticed that Theo had lost his trademark lisp, and was now wearing an expression that would've looked natural on a wizard who had taken quite a few blows from fate, but not on a mere child.

"Your Master…?" Harry stopped talking as stinging realization hit him upside the head, as well as a blinding red light, which he made out to be, just as he was knocked out, a curse. 


	4. Part Three: Stupid Plans and Misundersta...

* * *

**The Rules of Chess**

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all other characters, references, and situations belong to J.K Rowling. No copyright infringement intended

**Spoilers:** All four books

**Rating**: PG (maybe PG-13 in later chapters for darkness…)

**Category: **Drama/Action/Adventure

**Summary**: Fifth year fic centered around Harry. With Voldemort's return to power, a struggle begins between the Light and Dark Side. Harry finds himself in quite a few undesirable situations. Suspense, betrayal, Death Eaters, shaky plots to bring down Voldemort, and all sorts of new stuff

**A/N: Thanx to all of you who reviewed. You have no idea how happy that made me, that my work was actually read by somebody. ******

Chapter Three: Stupid Plans and Misunderstandings 

"How do you feel now?" Madame Pomfrey lightly placed her wand tip on Mr. Weasley's bluish temple. A faint green light glowed from her wand, bathing the walls with a faint radiance.   
  
"Dizzy," Mr. Weasley admitted, scrunching his face tightly as if it had hurt him.   
  
Madame Pomfrey drew her wand away, looking quite frazzled. "Dizzy? Are you positive?"   
  
Mr. Weasley nodded. Hermione let out a snort—it was quite obvious to see that he was dizzy, judging by his cross-eyes appearance and constantly swaying head.   
  
Professor Dumbledore, after receiving Hermione's letter, had promptly sent over Madame Pomfrey, the Hogwarts nurse, to watch over Mr. Weasley. After an hour of peering over books at the two, Hermione wasn't so sure that Madame Pomfrey was the best candidate. As far as she could see, all Pomfrey did for Mr. Weasley was fuss over him and strain him further.   
  
"Still dizzy? Think slowly now—is it dizziness, or a slight drowsiness? There is a difference," Madame Pomfrey asked doubtfully, speaking in the tone of one explaining a simple situation to a child.   
  
"I think—" Hermione chimed in, rising levelly from her perch. "That we have established that Mr. Weasley is dizzy, not drowsy, dizzy, Madam, and there is a difference. Please proceed."   
  
Looking a bit put off, Madame Pomfrey continued with her treatment, this time fussing over the position of his feet, which were dangling freely off the edge of the bed, ankles crossed.   
  
Hermione settled back down in her chair, and resumed watching them from over the top of her book (light reading, she liked to say, for the summer)   
  
**************   
  
  
  
Harry awoke to find himself leaning against a wall, no cords or rope binding him. He tried to get up, but found he couldn't move.   
  
"Full Body Bind," Harry affirmed, stating the obvious. "Maybe if I had my wand…" He banished that thought, too. He could feel the thin outline of his wand through the side of his shoe, where he kept it with him at all times, but it would do no good now, as he couldn't move an inch if his life depended on it (Harry gave a cold laugh at the irony of the statement)   
  
_Just plain cords and straps would've been better, _Harry thought bitterly. _Then I could at least try to get to my wand._   
  
When all the escape plans running through his mind tired out, Harry switched to thinking of ways that a boy name Theo could be dissected.   
  
_That filthy rat. After all I did for him, he turns his back and does this. _Harry bared his teeth and savagely imagined Theo's head being ripped off. A guilty feeling coursed through him as soon as he did, wondering if that was how Voldemort felt towards his Muggle father. He tried to force his mind off the subject.

  
Harry didn't have much forcing to do, as exactly at that moment, a man stepped into the dark flat.   
  
He was tall and stout, though his face was hidden from view with a black mask. In his gnarled hand was a wand.   
  
"I believe we have some—er—business to attend to, Harry Potter," the man said, a hint of amusement edging his spiteful tone.   
  
"Tell your _Master_," Harry said scathingly, "That I would never put myself to the level where I must attend _your _business."   
  
"You'd be disappointed," the man replied, latching himself onto Harry's arms and releasing him from the Body Bind.   
  
Harry wriggled under the man's iron grip, but that only caused the bone-crushing hold to tighten.   
  
"No use struggling," the man chided. He began shoving Harry towards a small, shimmering door that had quite suddenly appeared at the end of the room.   
  
Despite the fierceness in which Harry fought back, he couldn't deny that he was a bit closer to going through that shimmery door with every passing second.   
  
Just inches from the portal, a series of crashes were heard, and the door burst open, lying in splinters on the ground. The man froze, though not loosening his grip on Harry, who strained forward, eagerly waiting for the smoke around the door to clear so he could see who his rescuer was.   
  
A shock of frizzy white hair came into view, followed rapidly by a wrinkled face and a wrinkled hand, which was clutching feebly at a wand.   
  
"Mrs. Figg?" Harry breathed incredulously, feeling his body wither as the man beside him started laughing.   
  
"This is your savior? An old woman?" Harry could feel the man's arms trembling with mirth.   
  
Mrs. Figg simply regarded Harry for a second with her pale blue eyes, then turned her attention to the laughing Death Eater.   
  
"Good-bye," she said in a cheery voice, before sending a brilliant flash of red his way.   
  
Harry managed to slip around the Stunned Death Eater before he fell. He then proceeded to profusely thank Mrs. Figg, but was stopped by the urgency on her face.   
  
"Quickly, Harry, we must go. Any moment Voldemort will realize something went wrong when his Death Eater doesn't return, and he will send reinforcements." She began fiddling with numerous contraptions on the underside of her billowing black robes before looking up again. "Come on."   
  
Before Harry had the chance to even protest, she had grabbed his waist and sat him down behind her on a broomstick.   
  
As they crashed through a grimy window, sailing into the velvet sky, Harry turned back and saw a line of men emerging from the shining portal, all shaking their fists angrily at the retreating broomstick and it's passengers.   
  
"Mrs. Figg—Death Eaters have just come—" Harry panted, before he was cut off by a sudden streak of green that nipped the edge of his ear. A burning pain spread through his head, so suddenly and intensely that he almost plummeted to the ground. As it was, he was knocked to the extreme edge, teetering precariously on a spare inch of wood before managing to right himself into the proper sitting position.   
  
Mrs. Figg didn't turn to see, but her mouth was set in a hard line as she accelerated, urging the broom forward. Curses continued to rush past, coloring the night sky with brilliant shades of green and white, but she managed to evade most of them, until, gradually, they were out of range.   
  
Harry breathed a sigh of relief. The worst was over. Only the vast sky and the enormous silence kept them company.   
  
"Mrs. Figg?" Harry ventured tremulously, uncertain of what her reaction would be.   
  
She nodded to show that she had heard.   
  
"Are you a witch?" he blurted out, stupidly. Of _course _she was a witch; she had burst into a broken down house, Stunned a Death Eater, and flown out the window by a broomstick—what else could she be? A magically talented flobberworm?  
  
Mrs. Figg showed no sign of exasperation, but promptly answered Harry's question. "Yes."   
  
"How did you find me?"   
  
"Dumbledore sent me, soon as he heard the Dursley's had moved. You know, I was part of the reason that you were kept safe at the Dursley's—I kept the charms and barriers up all around 4 Privet Drive. It was required that every night I renew them, to keep them active."   
  
"So that's what Dumbledore was talking about when he mentioned the protection around the Dursleys?"   
  
Mrs. Figg gave him a confused look. "I suppose. There are quite a few reasons for the protection around the Dursleys. But when you moved so suddenly, without a notice, I had no chance to follow immediately and continue supplying that part of your protection. That's when Voldemort learned of this, and he took advantage. Heavens, I arrived just in time to stop you from going into that doorway."   
  
_What should I say? Oh, you needn't have done that, I would've been just fine without; I was looking forward to taking a wild ride into the depths of Voldemorts hideout? Dang you, old woman, for not telling me sooner? Let's go back and kill that Death Eater? _"Thank you, Mrs. Figg," Harry decided on, feeling that it was the mature thing to say.    
  
"I prefer to be addressed as Arabella. Mrs. Figg makes me feel older than I am."   
  
Harry complied, to be polite, but he couldn't help wondering exactly how old she was.   
  
"Do you want to know where we are going?" Arabella prodded, pushing a mass of white curls away from her face.   
"Yes," Harry said honestly, green eyes wide and clear, mind whirling with unsaid questions.   
"We're heading to the Burrow—Albus told me to drop you off there before I leave. You will be safe, among so many talented wizards and witches." Arabella banked left, then began descending jerkily, as if she were terrified of crashing.   
  
Pure happiness bubbled over Harry. No more Dursley's for the rest of the summer.  Instead he'd be spending it with the Weasley's. What more could he want? He leaned back slightly on the broomstick, bracing himself against the violent jerks that Arabella made as she neared the ground.   
  
Slowly and tentatively, they approached the Burrow.   
  
************   
  
  
  
Remus could barely hear himself over the noisy din. All morning, he had been shaking hands with other people in the Order of the Phoenix, and his hands were now extremely red and smelly. He figured a helping of undiluted bobotuber pus would've given similar results, if he ever wanted hands like that again.   
  
Two witches, both wives of Order members, bustled about serving hot, spicy tea to those who requested it. Several wizards were setting up chairs and tables around the large room.   
  
A shower of sparks flew into the air, fizzing impatiently from the tip of Dumbledore's wand as the room quieted down and people took their seats. Remus sat down next to Amos Diggory.  
  
Sirius waded through the crowd, pushing until reached Remus. Instead of sitting, he stood towering over him. Sighing, Remus pulled sharply at his friend's sleeve.   
  
"Sirius, you _know _that I don't like people standing over me like that," he said in a warning tone.   
  
"Well, yes, I _do _know, very well, in fact…" Sirius grinned cheekily at Remus, some of the haunted look in his eyes ebbing away as he did so. Remus didn't push the topic any further; it had been a long time since Sirius had felt truly lighthearted, and the previous hour had been one of those rare moments.   
  
When the room finally settled, Sirius popped out of his chair and ended up on top of it. "The Order will now come to order," he declared, facing the room while taking a ridiculously exaggerated bow.   
  
Good-natured groans filled the room, causing Sirius to take another bow. He was wearing a pleased sort of look, as if he had accomplished his life's goal.   
  
Dumbledore was looking at Sirius with amusement. Sirius took a few more bows before sinking low onto his knees in an unmistakable curtsy. At once, the female members of the Order began their critique.   
  
"Sirius, your knee isn't bent enough. Bend it!" Sirius did.   
  
"Head up, just a bit to the side…" Sirius lifted his head and bent it to a funny angle. The room rocked with laughter.   
  
"Point your toe—"   
  
The show was interrupted as another shower of sparks lit the air. Dumbledore had a serious look on his face, and all joking ceased instantly.   
  
Sirius jumped down and sat somberly in his chair, hands cupped over his chin. The old look was in his eyes, and Remus's heart ached to see it back again.   
  
"This meeting of the Order of the Phoenix has officially begun," Dumbledore said, rapping his knuckle sharply against the table. A rustle filled the room as everyone began taking off jackets and settling themselves into comfortable positions on the hard-backed chairs.   
  
Dumbledore waited patiently as this was done, speaking only when the noise died away. "As some of you may have noticed, Arabella is not present. This is no cause for commotion—she is simply taking Harry to his new location, with the Weasleys." He nodded to a man in the back of the room. Remus craned his neck to look, and the bright red hair on the man's head immediately tipped him off.   
  
Arthur Weasley gave a cheerful nod, then resumed listening intently to Dumbledore, who had continued talking.   
  
"Recently, several attacks were made on wizarding communities and families by Voldemort. He is gaining power, and still Fudge refuses to shed light on the truth. We must do all we can to keep Voldemort at bay and stop the massacres."   
  
A murmur of assent rippled through the room.   
  
"Through various sources, the target of Voldemort's next attack is confirmed. We will alert the LeRoy's at once. They are to find a safe hideout. On the thirtieth, Voldemort is to strike. We will be ready this time—Auror's and Order members will be stationed around the house." Dumbledore's face was slightly sickly in the pale light, yet every occupant looked at him respectfully as he began laying out the plans.   
  
"The LeRoy family is composed of four members—Scott LeRoy, Maggie Leroy, their son, Jordan, and Maggie's father, Langston. After they are moved to a safer location, we will need to send out four people to assume their roles." Dumbledore paused, turning the words over in his head before continuing. A couple wizards took advantage of the pause to shout out, "Why the LeRoys? A weaker family there never was! Why would Voldemort go after them?"   
  
Dumbledore chose to ignore them. "People who bear features closely matched to those of the family will be chosen. I think—yes, perhaps Sirius is fit to be Scott—same dark hair, eyes, and build. For Maggie—that's a bit of a stumper, isn't it? Astoundingly green eyes, brown hair." He paused again, skimming slowly over each upturned face, halting on a female witch with frosty blue-green eyes. "That will do," he said, sounding slightly dubious. "Lorrie Brown. With slight hair-color change, you might pass off as Maggie LeRoy. Jordan will be another issue altogether. Thirteen years old, black hair from his father, green eyes from his mother. We will need to find a willing teenager—preferably fluent in magic—one cannot forget that this is a dangerous mission. Mundungus, you will do well as Langston."   
  
"Why are we sending the real Jordan into hideout, only to replace him with another child? Wouldn't we be putting that child in danger?" someone hollered from the back row.   
  
"We need every member of the family to be present that evening, or Voldemort will suspect. Jordan's parents, if I know them, would never comply with leaving their son alone, and we cannot have them staying at the house and take the risks. The LeRoy's were never a particularly strong magical family, as most of you already know, and would have virtually no chance of defending themselves. The child we choose must be a powerful wizard-in-training, and he will be surrounded by many capable wizards." Dumbledore said after length.   
  
"So, in other words," Sirius spoke up, "I'm part of a decoy type family. Voldemort will think that we are the LeRoy's, and won't suspect any foul play."   
  
"Partly correct, Sirius. I applaud you. The house, on the night of the thirtieth, will be surrounded by Aurors. You four will be in the sitting room, acting out a normal family night. When the Death Eaters arrive, you will be in a position such that you are not defenseless and caught off guard. After the Death Eaters enter the house, the team will follow, and we'll handle it from there. Of course, you are welcome to help after you finish your part." Dumbledore wove his long fingers together and set them on top of his desk. "Any suggestions for Jordan?"   
  
Remus twitched. Something about Jordan sounded vaguely familiar. The black hair, the green eyes…_Where have I seen that before? _The question echoed futilely inside his head. Then it came back, with an answer. _Of course. Harry. Who would be more willing, brave, and trustworthy than Harry?_   
  
"If I may," he said loudly. Conversations were halted and row upon row of eyes were turned towards him. He swallowed nervously. Dumbledore nodded benevolently down at him from the slightly raised table he was sitting at. "Harry Potter. He would pass off for Jordan as easily as salt is mistaken for sugar. Black hair, green eyes. We all know that Harry is fifteen, but he's small—slim, with a light build. He could pass off as thirteen. A few eye-correcting charms, and his glasses wouldn't be needed—a few concealing charms, and his scar would be hidden. I am almost positive when I say that Harry will be glad to help the cause."   
  
"That will do nicely, Remus. You are to fly to St. Ottery Catchpole and intercept Arabella. She will be coming back from the Burrow. The two of you turn back and provide Harry with the details of our discussion tonight. Make sure he understands the risks of taking up this job. The Order is now dismissed." With a casual wave of his hand, Dumbledore left the raised platform.   
  
Remus got up so abruptly that his chair teetered precariously on its two back legs, said his hasty good-byes, and mounted a broom that was sitting expectantly in the corner. Without glancing back, he zoomed out of the house and into the sky. 

*************************  
**  
  
Harry watched with bated breath as the ground rushed closer. Arabella struggled to bring the broom down evenly, but it wobbled and bucked unsteadily under her bony hand. Harry closed his eyes, and, seconds later, felt the ground connect harshly with his foot. Arabella gave an 'oof' of surprise and tumbled gently off the broom. Harry helped her up and guided her to the Burrow, one hand under her elbow, as she was still shaky from the ride.   
  
He stopped in front of the door, raised a fist hesitantly, and knocked, loudly, three times.   
  
Mrs. Weasley answered. She stared at Harry in bewilderment before she let out a shrill cry.   
  
_"Harry!" _Without a trace of self-restraint, Mrs. Weasley flung herself at Harry, squeezing him tightly. Through the gap in Mrs. Weasley's arm, Harry could see the rest of the Weasley's assemble at the door, awaiting their turn to greet him.   
  
When Mrs. Weasley finally released Harry from the embrace, the Weasley children hurried over. Harry could barely speak, sandwiched as he was in a flurry of red hair and long limbs. He could feel a hand slap his back. Another dug itself into his head. A shout of 'Oy, Harry! You're back!" came from his right side. Someone poked his eye (Harry hoped it was an accident, and not an honest attempt to blind him).   
  
The next few hours passed by in a blur. Arabella left after cordially greeting Mrs. Weasley. Ron led Harry, who had no belongings to carry due to present circumstances, to his blazing orange room. The room hurt his already throbbing eye.   
  
After unpacking, Harry was dragged downstairs by two very ecstatic twins, who pinned his arms behind his back and frog-marched him into the living room while humming 'Here Comes the Bride', in which the original words had been artfully replaced by more humorous lyrics.   
  
In the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley had baked up a storm; there were numerous pies and cakes, pitchers of pumpkin juice, platters of sandwiches (not corned-beef, Ron noted happily) and bowls heaped with mashed potatoes, salads, and chicken. Harry offered to say grace before they ate, so they bowed their heads and Harry gave thanks for the food.   
  
A rushed, "Amen" followed the brief prayer. Harry, who hadn't tasted a proper meal all summer, had his plate piled to the top before anyone could so much as bat an eye. After steadily working his way through two helpings, he shoved his plate away and patted his stomach, as if congratulating it on a meal well eaten. It gurgled in response.   
  
He was seated between Ron and Fred, who were immersed in a salad eating competition (Ginny made sure of that, so her brother's wouldn't get 'fat'). George egged them on and dished them more salad when they finished their platefuls.   
  
When the salad competition ended (Ron won, much to Charlie's dismay—he had bet 5 Knuts on Fred), the dishes were brought to the sink and the table was put away in a corner. Ginny and Mrs. Weasley stayed in the kitchen, tidying up, while the boys trooped into the next room. Talk turned, unsurprisingly, to Quidditch.   
  
"If I get enough O.W.L.s, Dad reckons he'd buy me a Nimbus 2000. Imagine that, me, sailing across the sky, with a Nimbus 2000…with Malfoy chasing angrily at my tail, of course, not able to catch up…then he'd fall through the clouds and land on the ground and splat all over the place…and I would be flying circles over him, laughing…" Ron said dreamily, oblivious to anything around him.   
  
Harry laughed, bringing Ron out of his reveries with a light punch on the arm. "By the way, where is your Dad? I don't remember seeing him at supper." During dinner, he had been informed that Mr. Weasley had turned up.

  
"Oh, he's at some meeting with Dumbledore," Ron answered, scratching a throbbing insect bite that happened to be on the tip of his nose. Harry thought he looked rather like Pinocchio. He didn't bother saying this to Ron, who he knew wouldn't understand. "Did you hear about that absolutely _amazing _match with—"   
  
"What happened when he disappeared?" Harry interrupted, recalling the distraught letter Ron had sent.   
  
"We really don't know. He just disappeared, then turned up at Hermione's house. He doesn't remember anything, and no spells or potions will break through the Memory Charm placed on him. But he's okay, only a few minor bruises and scratches, so we're not worried." Despite saying all this in a nonchalant manner, Harry noticed that Ron's mouth had tightened and his ears had turned pink. Deciding not to strain more details from Ron, Harry changed the subject.   
  
"So what happened at the match?"   
  
The result was instantaneous—Ron's eyes lit up, and he was off, describing each and every minuscule, but _astounding, _as he put it, move played by the Chudley Cannons.   
  
"And so the Seeker goes into this Wronski-Feint thing…"   
  
"Boys! Time to hustle up to bed," Mrs. Weasley called from the kitchen, pushing open the door and standing ardently before them, wet hands clutching a dish towel.

  
Reluctantly, Ron stopped talking about the match to trudge up the stairs, Harry close behind. He could hear Fred and George's heavy footsteps following him, and an echo or two that sounded like Ginny's light feet.   
  
At the top of the stairwell, the Weasley's separated into their individual rooms. Harry followed Ron to the doorway directly in front of them, which was easily spotted due to its bright orange color.   
  
"I'm not sleepy yet, are you?" Ron shut the door swiftly and fell headfirst into his bed, sending bits of fluff into the air as he did so.   
  
"I guess not," Harry lied. In all actuality, he was longing to crawl under the covers and escape from the world.    
  
"Have a seat. I'll bring out the chess board." Ron bent over, pulling a heavy brown trunk from under his bed, and began rummaging through it. Various wizarding contraptions flew out, and Harry was forced to do a silly duck-and-weave dance to avoid the flying articles.   
  
"Chess?"   
  
"Yeah. Playing always helps me sleep better. Besides, you could always use a few pointers, from the Chess master himself," Ron said dramatically, loftily holding up a worn wizard chessboard.   
  
"What master? Where?" Harry joked, snorting as Ron drew up his chest and puffed his cheeks out, in a surprisingly realistic impression of Percy. 

"Better not let Percy catch you doing that."   
  
Ron shrugged as he set up the board and put the pieces into their corresponding squares. "Do we play a game, or do you want a lesson?"   
  
"Play a game. I can hold my own against you any day," Harry said confidently, blocking out the jeers coming from his own chessmen.   
  
Half an hour later, Harry admitted defeat as Ron's knight cornered his king. "Maybe I _should _take a lesson," he confessed weakly, allowing himself a sheepish smile.   
  
Ron hooted while resetting the chessmen. "Then I shall teach you, you hopeless nut, for ten Sickles a session." He stuck his chin out as far as it would go, and looked down at Harry from over his nose.   
  
"Agreed, wise master. I shall be your humble apprentice." Harry played along, bowing his head and feigning admiration for Ron.   
  
"Good. We shall begin, shall we?"   
  
"We shall," Harry repeated, pretending to take notes as Ron enumerated the advantages and uses of each chessman.   
  
They had not gone far into the lesson before an urgent voice was calling Harry from downstairs. A foreboding air overtook the atmosphere.

  
Exchanging grimaces, both boys scrambled to put away the chessboard.   
  
When Harry entered the living room and saw a haggard Arabella and Remus anticipating his arrival, he felt a douse of icy water slip down his stomach. It reminded him of his fourth year—when he heard his name being called for the Triwizard Tournament. He remembered the shock, dread, and fear that had overcome him, weaving into a single nightmarish tapestry. The same tapestry had come together when he was staring into Cedric's emotionless face—the same tapestry when he witnessed Voldemort's rebirth—all the same.   
  
"Harry? Harry?" It was Remus. Harry silently scolded himself and fixed every ounce of attention he could muster into what his former instructor was saying.   
  
The minutes ticked by sluggishly. Remus's words began blending seamlessly together. Harry didn't bother lifting his head when it lolled over to the side, very nearly missing a protruding bookcase. Warm sleepiness washed over him in waves. It was all he could do not to fall over and curl up in slumber. Here and there, he caught snatches of what Remus was saying, and pieced them together blindly until he knew what was going on. They were expecting him to play a fake Jordan, because the real one was too weak to defend himself. The same case occurred in the LeRoy parents. They were expecting him to face Death Eaters, risk his life. _They, _being the Order of the Phoenix Sirius had told him about the year before. They, they, they. Only _they, _no _him. _  
  
He pushed aside his sleepiness and stood up. "What?" he demanded, voice cracking with exertion. "_What?"_   
  
"I know it seems like a big challenge, Harry, but we really need you. You won't be in any danger—Sirius, Mundungus, and Lorrie will be with you, as well as a large team of Aurors—and Dumbledore doesn't expect the Dark Lord to be there personally—it's just a small killing raid, like he's been doing for the past few months, and I expect that he doesn't concern himself with matters like that," Remus amended hurriedly.   
  
_Why are they doing this to me? Don't they know what I'm feeling right now? Why would Dumbledore ever agree to do something like this? _Harry put his head between his elbows, aggravated. Beside him, he felt Ron lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder.   
  
"What about it, Harry?" Remus asked again, a note of pleading laced thickly through his voice.   
  
Harry was silent, pure horror coursing through his veins. _More Death Eaters, more death—risk of facing Voldemort again—_Visions of the old graveyard dulled his vision, his throat seemed to be constricting, cutting off air flow—   
  
"Harry very well has a right to refuse," Mrs. Weasley said stoutly, watching Harry with distress. She looked like a wildcat, ready to pounce if provoked.   
  
"No, it's okay, Mrs. Weasley. If Remus wants to go around hatching plans that include me being killed by Death Eaters, he can. And if the whole bloody order wants to be bloody stupid enough to agree on it, that's fine with me too. No one needs to consider me, or what I think about everything," Harry said through clenched teeth, voice laden with sarcasm. His body trembled as he unintentionally leaned forward, hands knotted into tight fists.   
  
"No, Harry, you're taking it wrong—Please, I didn't mean—"   
  
"_I'm _taking it wrong? _I'm _not the one running around asking people _who are already traumatized _to go, sit in a bloody house, and wait for a group of Death Eaters to appear and scare them shitless," Harry shouted in response to Remus's apology.

His throat quivered and his eyes were radiating so much fury and loathing that the room seemed to quake. 

He didn't notice that Mrs. Weasley was looking scandalized at the sudden onslaught of inappropriate words. He didn't notice that Arabella was standing there. He didn't notice Ron's sympathetic looks. He didn't notice anything but his rage and his desire to beat Remus down with it.   
  
In the back of his mind, he knew that it wasn't Remus's fault—knew it wasn't really anyone's fault that he was blowing up like this. But he didn't care about rationality at this particular moment. He was throwing a fit, acting like a stereotypical spoiled brat, but he continued, ranting on until he tired himself out and slumped against a couch, fatigue luring him into the black depths of sleep.   
  
"That went well," Remus said halfheartedly into the ringing silence.   
  
Mrs. Weasley glanced at him frantically, hurrying to the couch to magic a few pillows under Harry's head.   
  
  
 **********   
  
  
  
"Did it go smoothly, Remus?" Dumbledore asked pleasantly, looking up from a fresh stack of letters to welcome the former Professor into his office.   
  
"I'm afraid not." Remus suddenly looked very old as he ran a hand through his graying hair. "He kept going on and on about how inconsiderate I was—threw a whole temper tantrum—wouldn't be surprised if the whole of St. Ottery heard. I doubt he'll agree to do it."   
  
"I surmised as much," Dumbledore said, bowing his head to hide whatever emotions were playing across his face.   
  
"Then why did you send me? And if you don't mind me asking, why can't we use some other boy with black hair? One without such a…tragic past?" Remus was unprepared for the answer, when it came.   
  
"I approved of Harry being chosen because I thought it for the best. When time comes, and you know by now it will, Remus, Harry _must _face Voldemort a final time. That includes hordes of Death Eaters. To get him…" Dumbledore groped for a word. "_Acquainted _to masses of Death Eaters now, while he's relatively safe, will prove beneficial in the long run."   
  
"You're doing this just to get him used to Death Eaters? Why would anyone want to get used to them?"   
  
"And to see how the Aurors handle them. If he meets up with them in the future, he won't panic and lose his head. Many a great witch or wizard have fallen due to inexperience."   
  
"I get it now," Remus said carefully, sorting out the rush of thoughts swimming around in his head.   
  
"You catch on quickly." There was not a hint of acid in Dumbledore's voice.   
  



	5. Part Four: What Went Wrong?

* * *

**The Rules of Chess**

**Author:** VyingQuill (on ff.net)/ On Your Leave (on schnoogle)****

**E-Mail: schern@mbay.net**

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Spoilers:** All four books

**Rating**: PG-13

**Category: **Drama/Action/Adventure

**Summary**: Fifth year fic centered around Harry. With Voldemort's return to power, a struggle begins between the Light and Dark Side. Harry finds himself in quite a few undesirable situations. Suspense, betrayal, Death Eaters, shaky plots to bring down Voldemort, and all sorts of new stuff

**Category**: Drama/Action

**Keywords: **Harry, Ron, Death Eaters, Weasleys

**A/N: Thanx to all of you who reviewed. You have no idea how happy that made me, that my work was actually read by somebody. I might not update for a while, because of school and everything. Chapters should be coming about once every two weeks, or once a week, depending. Please keep reading and reviewing! ******

**Chapter Four:  What Went Wrong? **

There was no fire in the room, no warmth, or even a trace of humanity. But there _was _Voldemort, a barely audible hissing noise, and the shadow of a man standing stiffly before Voldemort. 

"_Actum Abquememoria." _

"The Order knows of planned attack on the LeRoys. They will be ready. And Harry Potter is due to be there." 

 "Tell me more."  Voldemort was certainly not in one of his better moods, what with his arguably most valuable Death Eater failing to carry out his orders, and having his scheme backfire in his face. 

_That damned Harry Potter and his luck. _

Luck was for fools, and he hadn't the patience or time to deal with incompetent blockheads. If he had his way, nothing would be left to chance. Of course, if he had his way, half of Britain would be reduced to the size of a cinder block, overrun with his minions. 

************

Harry bolted upright, his flailing arm almost upsetting a bowl of steaming liquid that was set on a night table next to him. His face was damp with cool beads of perspiration; the flannel pajamas he was wearing stuck uncomfortably to his back and legs. 

He couldn't remember having changed into pajamas (which looked suspiciously girlish, with bright pink dots lining the edges), but immediately assumed that Mrs. Weasley had something to do with it. As much as Harry thought of her as a second mother, he blushed at the thought of her changing him. 

He tried to recall the reason he was even awake now, as the curtains were tightly drawn, the house was eerily silent, and a small alarm clock that was strewn across the floor read 3:00 AM. Swiftly, his dream rushed back to him. 

White. Pure, blinding, refreshing white. Somehow, he was standing, quite firmly, on what appeared to be thin air. The absence of color unnerved him. A light, melodic voice descended upon the whiteness, surrounding him, singing to him—"_Think carefully of the risks you are willing to take, the contribution you will make with them, and the purpose you are making them for. Then, forsake the thinking and follow your heart, wherever it may lead you…"_

"Harry? Harry?" Someone was calling his name, beckoning for him to return to reality. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled himself from his memories and looked into the freckled face of Arthur Weasley. 

He knew what he had to say. With fierce determination, Harry painfully hashed out each syllable—"I'll do it. I'll be Jordan." His heart jumped in his chest, but he knew that this was something he needed to do, a difficult assignment that he would complete even if it _killed_ him. He was struck by the irony of the thought—his birthday, which was rapidly approaching, was on the thirty-first. It _would _be a rather bitter ending if he happened to die, the day before he was born, while performing his task.

"Thank you." Arthur's said, sounding surprised. His eyes, soft with emotion, searched  Harry's face. "You have a good heart. I was just informed that you had uncertainties, and…well, from the way it sounded, I wasn't sure that you wanted to pull through…" 

Harry quelled noticeably under Mr. Weasley's steadfast gaze. 

"Er…"

"That's all right, you don't have to say anything. I simply wanted you to know that—well, I admire you. Going through the things you went through, yet still offering your hand to danger…" 

Harry shrugged. A sudden thought occurred to him. "Why are you up so early? It's three in the morning." 

"Ah, so it is. Albus kept me late, unintentionally, I would think. He was updating me on your reaction to—uh…" Arthur faltered, ears reddening. "He was informing me of our future plans. He'll be happy to know your decision—first thing tomorrow, I'll report back."   

With a final paternal pat on the back, Arthur retreated into the darkness. Harry heard his feet plodding tiredly up the stairs, followed shortly by the clicking noise of a door being gently pressed shut.  

With his burden relieved, Harry sank back into his makeshift bed, feeling more cheerful than he had ever since he had since he left Hogwarts for the summer. 

***************

The days proceeding the 30th passed by quickly for Harry, every hour occupied by training, which consisted of offensive and defensive maneuvers, preparations, and almost constant anxiety, on the part of Mrs. Weasley and Sirius.  Harry was too busy to find himself extremely fearful or apprehensive for more than a few moments at a time. 

_Which, _he thought as he clumsily blocked a Stunning spell from Remus,  _is probably a good thing. _

Harry dropped back into a steadfast crouch instantly; Dumbledore himself had arranged for this type of training to be held. A loose ring of Aurors surrounded him, each taking their turns firing numerous spells and hexes in his general direction, which he blocked, or rather, attempted to block, as swiftly as he could. To his satisfaction, he was progressing rapidly, and had advanced to the stage in which he could sometimes manage to block two curses at once. Ron would have a cow if he knew the 'simple lessons' (as Harry had put it when he told Ron that he wasn't going to be around for a while) that had been taught to Harry. 

"Quite a show you put on, Harry." 

He started, almost dropping his wand, but calmed down once he realized it was Dumbledore. He supposed his initial reaction was due to spending a bit too much time with Mad-Eye Moody, who seemed always to be around, occasionally offering words of wisdom.  

"That's enough for today." Dumbledore said, addressing the Aurors, who gradually dispersed, milling about near the refreshments table drinking Butterbeer or chatting idly about varied topics. He turned his attention back to Harry, guiding him firmly out of the large gymnasium into a dimly lit, narrow hallway. 

Harry complied willingly, falling into step beside Dumbledore's long legs. He studied the walls of the hallway with interest; between frequent intervals were large portraits depicting dueling adversaries who moved about hexing each other and performing, flawlessly, several tactics that Harry himself had taken to studying, but had not quite mastered yet. 

Dumbledore ushered Harry into a circular, padded room that opened from the narrow hallway entrance. It was empty but for two wizards, one wearing red, the other black, facing each other in the very center. 

Holding a finger to his lips, Dumbledore nodded pointedly at the two wizards. Harry pressed himself against the dark paddings, trying to make himself smaller by imagining he was a two dimensional figure melting into the walls. 

The two wizards bowed respectfully to each other, than turned sharply and did likewise to Dumbledore. Together, as one, they brought up their wands. 

_One—two—three—_Harry counted silently under his breath. A fantastic burst of color illuminated the room briefly.

 Quick as lighting, the wizard in red appeared behind the one in black, catching him off guard. Feeling the sudden change of air flow, the one in black leapt instinctively into the air, barely missing a curse. 

Harry had barely the time to remind himself to shut his gaping mouth before the two wizards had recovered from their ordeals and were battling again, with fresh determination. 

Black shot a Disarming Spell at Red, who ducked, causing the spell to ricochet dangerously off the padded wall, rushing straight towards Harry's head. Before he knew what he was doing, Harry found himself flat on the floor, quite winded, staring at the wooden tiles. Hauling himself up with some effort (it felt like a few bruises were already forming on his shins and stomach), he found himself looking up at Dumbledore, who was still watching the duel with interest. 

"I like your instincts—curse barely missed you," he said, without looking at Harry. 

Smiling sheepishly, Harry resumed attention to the duel, ignoring the sharp throbbing that seemed to come from the region around his bellybutton. He decided it was worth it, in exchange for Dumbledore's, however insignificant, praise. 

*******************

"….Each one of you is equipped with a Spell-Activated Portkey, which will transport you to the Order headquarters if desired. Simply tap with your wand. Communication spells will be on at all times." 

Dumbledore looked tersely at the faces around him. 

The final moments before the attack was now at hand. All volunteers were lined up, ready to Apparate to location.

 Harry was standing sandwiched between Sirius and Mundungus, not wearing his trademark black-rimmed glasses. Sirius had few alterations—a simple haircut had sufficed. Mundugus's hair had been bleached silver-gray, his eyes darkened noticeably, and his normally erect figure was now slightly withered. Lorrie Brown, a quiet, kindly woman, now had drastically deep green eyes, accompanied by a thick chestnut colored mane. 

Dumbledore surveyed the decoy LeRoy family a final time, signaling his approval. "We're ready."

Dusk was falling fast, laying it's vast hand over the sky. The small band of Aurors Apparated away, with the exception of Harry, who was Portkeyed to the destination. 

Harry blinked once as he landed, miraculously, on both feet. Sirius, Mundungus, and Lorrie appeared next to him, followed closely by a dozen or so Aurors. Dumbledore made a small beckoning motion with his hand before disappearing behind a tall bush. Without a word, the remaining Aurors followed, leaving Harry and the three others quite alone. 

"Best be ready," Sirius whispered, giving Harry a reassuring squeeze. He could feel Harry's shoulder trembling under a thin jacket, and immediately cast a warming charm over his godson, though he suspected that the shaking had nothing to do with the cold nip of the wind. 

The temporary LeRoy family entered the house, which was already blazing with falsely cheery lights and toasty fires. 

Harry settled himself as comfortably as he could in front of large television, flicking through channels until he let it rest on a cartoon. Mundungus eased himself into a soft, downy armchair, while Lorrie busied herself in the kitchen. Sirius sat next to Harry, looking altogether very casual, though his constant fidgeting motions gave away his true feelings. 

Harry's heart was beating so loudly and furiously that he was sure it would pop through his robes, like the skunk in the cartoon he was pretending to watch. His throat felt scratchy, as if he had just swallowed a cupful of grit. 

_Say something, be normal, _he reminded himself. He put his legs up on the coffee table, allowing his hands to cross carelessly across his chest. _That's better. _

"So…" Harry began, coughing as his voice grated in his throat. Sirius jumped upon hearing the noise. Under different circumstances, Harry might've laughed at the look on his godfather's face, but tonight, there was nothing but dread hanging low over him. A faint buzzing had kicked its way into his head, clouding his thoughts until he could barely string together a comprehensive sentence. 

"Er…"

Sirius arched an eyebrow at him. 

"Er…um…why do the LeRoys—I mean—er—why do _we _have a telly? Isn't it a Muggle thing?" Harry corrected hastily, annoyed at himself for his inability to put up under pressure. Why couldn't he be like Mundugus, who looked like he was about to fall asleep in his chair? Or like Lorrie, who was sipping hot tea daintily, pinky sticking into the air, flipping through a fashion magazine with the air of one with nothing to do on a Sunday night? 

"Don't you remember, son? Your mother and I work for the Muggle Artifacts department for the Ministry, because we share a passion for Muggle inventions," Sirius said with forced enthusiasm. 

Harry was about to reply when his wand began vibrating feverishly. He picked it up. Around him, he could hear Sirius, Mundungus, and Lorrie do the same. 

The same voice filled the room—"Death Eaters Apparating around the house—looks a mite more than the numbers we estimated—be prepared—they're readying themselves—we're going to make our move, hold tight—"

A slight tremor shook the house, knocking over a few porcelain vases. A deafening roar filled the air as curses zipped steadily across the front yard. 

"Your wand Harry! Get ready! Stay behind me!" Sirius hollered over the din. 

Mundugus and Lorrie stood back-to-back behind Harry, alert and ready, waiting for Dumbledore' signal. 

Harry strained his ears, trying to piece together what was happening behind all the cursing and shouting. Pieces of blown-up rock pelted the windows, which were holding due to the Unbreakable Wards places around the house. 

No more than a few minutes later, their wands began vibrating again. A gravelly, panicked voice cut through the static, yelling hoarsely, "Portkey back—too many—"

The voice was suddenly cut off as a massive blast was set off, sending cracks running down through the floor tiles. 

"Sirius—it must be the communication spells—they've been disconnected—"

"We've got to Portkey back—something horrible's happening out there, and we need to keep Harry safe—" Harry felt a hand enclosing tightly around his back, crushing him in a protective embrace. 

"No," Mundungus said fiercely. The concealment charms that disguised his figure melted away, revealing a tall, strong-looking middle aged man, who, at the moment, was ablaze with fury. "I'm not leaving my colleagues—friends—here to die at the hands of filth. I'm going out there and doing all I can for them—and I'm not leaving. You take Harry and leave, Sirius, and Lorrie can make her decision." 

Sirius nodded. "Harry, get your Portkey. Tap it. We need to go—now." 

Harry hurriedly slid the small, circular Portkey from his robes' pocket, and was just about to tap it with his wand when—

The door was laid flat. A merciless, high-pitched laugh filled the room. Harry's stomach twisted in fear. 

_"Expelliarmus!" _

Harry's Portkey flew straight into the air, high above his head. Then it fell, slicing cleanly through the air, shattering into sharp-edged pieces on the ground. His last hope for escape, destroyed in a split second.  

A tirade of Death Eaters, led by a spindly figure, robed in black, flooded the living room. The figure stepped forth, rolling up his sleeves to reveal deathly pale arms, which ended in long, tapered fingers. Narrow red slits glinted ruby-like behind a hood that concealed what would likely be a deathly pale face. 

_Voldemort. _Harry could scarcely believe it. Blood drained from his face, an odd pounding resounded through his head—_boom boom DOOM…_

Graveyard. Not Voldemort's fathers' graveyard. No, this time, it was his graveyard. His grave. His death. 

Harry let his wand clatter soundlessly to his feet as he awaited the inevitable. Sirius, sensing his intentions, let out a strangled cry. 

"Harry, pick up your wand! I demand you! As your guardian--!"

A cruel laugh drowned out whatever Sirius was going to say, whatever encouragement that might have been offered. 

"Wise, Potter, wise." The figure threw back his hood. 

Harry resisted the urge to shrink back in loathing—made himself stand upright, strong. A rush of determined energy rushed through his veins, warming his numbed hands. He bent down, and, in one fluid motion, picked up his wand and pointed it between Voldemort's blood-red eyes, shining with mirthless amusement. 

"Oh, did you lose that wisdom as quickly as you grasped it?" Voldemort taunted. 

More explosions sounded in the background. Voldemort barely flinched. 

"Those screams you hear out there would be my Death Eaters—not quite capable of holding their own, yet proving useful anyways. You see?" Voldemort advanced further into the room, sending Sirius flying into a wall with a single flick of his wrist. 

"Stupefy!" Mundungus charged straight at the Dark Lord, wand outstretched.  

Voldemort blocked him with an upturned palm. Harry felt a wave of nausea rack his body. Bright green and red veins criss-crossed across Voldemort's palm, pulsing and wriggling under papery skin in snakelike motions. 

"Stupid man. I think you should go outside and have your fun before I deal with you. Go." Voldemort lifted his wand. Shouting several profanities, Mundungus shattered through the 'Unbreakable' windows. Lorrie, eyes darting across Sirius's unconscious form, let loose a frightened squeak before pushing past Voldemort and running out the door. A flash of green illuminated the doorway, a sickening thud... Harry managed to catch sight of a lock of thick brown hair before Voldemort moved directly in front of him. 

"This time, fools luck will do no good." Voldemort's lifted his head, sniffing the air with slitted nostrils. "The stench of death is strong."  He brought his face closer to Harry's—so close that Harry could almost poke the glinting red eyes, if he felt the need. 

A voice cut clearly through the commotion. "Catch, Harry!" Sirius, using a table as support, struggled weakly to his feet, staggering sideways as he released a small, white orb into the air. Harry leapt up and caught the object. 

Voldemort's eyes widened, and he fumbled hastily for his wand. Harry, without a second thought, hit the Portkey using his wand. The world spun blearily before him, and he finally did what his body had been threatening to do all night—retched over his robes, on his wand, before he landed on a plush carpeted floor, lying in a puddle of his own vomit. 

"Are you okay, Sirius?" he croaked out, wincing at the needles of pain that pierced his throat. "Sirius?" 

He scrambled off the floor, cold waves of dread flooding his entire being. "Sirius…" he whispered, wand falling slowly from his sticky lifeless fingers. "I left you there…I left you…took your Portkey and left you…" 

So it was that Remus Lupin found Harry, covered in suspicious looking chunky substance, staring at his soiled robes with grief laden eyes. 

*********************

**A/N: Please review **

**  
  
**


	6. Part Five: Tis a Far, Far Better Thing

* * *

The Rules of Chess 

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all other characters, references, and situations belong to J.K Rowling. No copyright infringement intended

**Spoilers:** All four books

**Rating**: PG (maybe PG-13 in later chapters for darkness…)

**Category: **Drama/Action/Adventure

**Summary**: Fifth year fic centered around Harry. With Voldemort's return to power, a struggle begins between the Light and Dark Side. Harry finds himself in quite a few undesirable situations. Suspense, betrayal, Death Eaters, shaky plots to bring down Voldemort, and all sorts of new stuff. 

**A/N: This chapter is quite a bit shorter than the others, but that's how it is. Sorry, I'll try to make it longer in the future. Or do you like them short? Drop me a note in the reviews, maybe? Please? All my work pays off so much when I see people reading and actually liking my stuff, or helping me make it better. Oh, and  I forgot to mention in the last chapter about Harry's scar hurting around Voldemort. Completely slipped my mind. Forgive me. I tried to compensate for it in this chapter, so play along and pretend that his scar hurt all last chapter! And a word of warning: This chapter kinda sucks, I was swamped with schoolwork. ******

**Part Five: Tis A Far, Far Better Thing  **

Even months later, Sirius remembered what had happened down to each minute detail. Every time he thought of it, he relived the pain, agony, and defeat of hopelessness. He could recall the flash of hope, the feeling of a lingering debt to James partially fulfilled. And horror. The horror of the experience would follow him until his dying day, and maybe a day or two after that, even. Never before had he been so close to Voldemort, or smelled the pure essence of evil, as Harry had four times before. He honestly didn't know how the boy handled it with such dexterity and grace. 

Amid the racket and confusion, the only sound he heard inside his mind was his own voice, screaming at him to keep Harry safe, alive. His actions had been stupid, he admitted. The right thing to do would have been to leave by Portkey, with Harry, the second he knew the Auror's couldn't handle the Death Eaters. 

He had believed that all was lost when Voldemort sent him slamming forcefully into the wall—in fact, he had felt despair grip his heart when Harry's Portkey shattered on the ground seconds earlier, but had clung to the hope that he could reach Harry and Portkey both of them back to headquarters. 

Already he knew they wouldn't be unscathed—an excruciating pain was radiating from his eye. A thick, glutinous material ran down his left cheek. He had instinctively closed his eyes when he heard the shower of broken glass above him, but his face had been turned upwards. Forcing his left eye to open only caused the blood flow to thicken. 

With his one good eye, he peered down at his robes, which were soaked in crusty brown, laid over with a thick layer of fresh maroon. His best guess was that one of the stray shards of glass had pierced his eyelid, driving itself into his eye, or he had just not closed his eye fast enough.

 Through his mask of pain, he barely felt the protruding bump in his robes pocket, but he did. The decision was simple, too simple, really. Dreadfully simple, yet agonizingly difficult. He would die if he threw his Portkey to Harry, and some strong force had taken hold of his hand, holding it back from his pocket, where the round orb resided. 

With a grunt of exertion, Sirius drew out the Portkey, released it into the air, and pulled himself upright, his weak legs quivering under his suddenly overwhelming weight. His breath caught in his throat when he saw Harry catch the Portkey and whip out his wand. 

_Go, just go, Harry. Leave…forget about me…_Sirius chanted, swaying as a trivial tremor shook the house. He could have sworn that Harry cast a dismissive eye his way, but shook his head when he realized his one-eyed vision had been blurring. 

Harry disappeared. 

Sirius felt like rushing in front of Voldemort and dancing a jig naked in front of the Dark Lord, but instead fell back to the floor, praying that Voldemort would leave him alone. His wand was lying abandoned by Voldemort's feet, knocked out of his grasp when he hit the wall. 

He should have known that death prayers were futile. 

"Sirius Black," sneered the high voice bitterly. "Savior of the weak and cursed. You _do _know that you'll die for that stunt, don't you? Or did you expect an unexpected bout of mercy?"

Anger and slight annoyance rushed into Sirius's head, pounding angrily against his temples. "No shit, you bastard." 

The Dark Lord was silent for a moment, while Sirius wondered what kind of agonizing torture he would feel rack his body in the next ten seconds. Instead, Voldemort broke out into cold, spiteful laughter. 

A wand was now raised at Sirius's head, shaking slightly in anticipation. 

Sirius resumed his fervent praying, figuring that the sudden silence that had engulfed the house was his own life being deprived from him. Or maybe Voldemort had disabled him of his ability to hear, thinking to have some fun by adding to his crippled condition. What he _didn't _figure was that Dumbledore and his small band of Aurors had dispelled the _majority_ of the Death Eaters and were storming towards the house.

And, predictably, Dumbledore and the remaining Aurors burst into the house, earning a wrathful yell from Voldemort. 

"You!" he hissed venomously, riveting his gaze from the wounded Sirius to settle hatefully upon Dumbledore. 

Both wizards crouched low, leaning forward against the balls of their feet. A disgusted look crossed Voldemort's face, and he disregarded traditional dueling etiquette by sending a curse at the old man without bowing. 

Dumbledore was ready. He blocked the hex, and sent one of his own. 

"Apparate away! Get Sirius and Apparate away!" he ordered, narrowly missing another curse aimed at his ankles. 

Sirius felt someone grab his shoulders roughly. He was whisked away into space, a stocky figure by his side. 

"Shit." 

A black-hooded face was looking down at him. Auror's wore white robes. 

************

The throbbing pain in Harry's scar receded slowly, leaving only a dull ache. Usually, he would have been relieved, but right now, he was fairly troubled. His eyes darted across the dimly lit room, resting briefly on Remus's bent back before gazing out the bedside window. 

Dumbledore, Sirius, and the volunteering Order members had not yet returned. The scar, which had been searing bright green over Harry's skin for the past few hours, had been a strange source of comfort, reminding him that there was a chance that everything would be all right. If there was any reason for Voldemort to stay angry, it would be because Sirius and the others had safely escaped. 

He assumed that the fading of his scar meant that Voldemort was feeling content, and, though he didn't know for what reason, he couldn't stop horrible images of a dead or imprisoned Sirius from flooding into his mind. 

"It's okay, Dumbledore will rescue him. Voldemort's afraid of Dumbledore—" 

Harry took up repeating these words indefinitely, feeling utterly useless. 

**************

Remus couldn't bear looking at Harry's troubled, sleeping form any longer. He turned away, attempting to busy himself with paperwork. However, he found his unruly mind roving and drifting over topics other than the files in front of his nose.

 Harry had not left Remus in the dark about the nights events—he had managed to spew out an understandable account of what had happened to the point of him using Sirius's Portkey (punctuated by the occasional muffled sob). 

Still, many unanswered questions bothered Remus, allowing him to do nothing else but wonder and worry. The room was quiet, disturbed periodically by the distant rattle of wind against windows. 

Remus was sorely tempted to Apparate to the LeRoy home, but Dumbledore had not given him that particular piece of information, ordering him to stay at the Order of the Phoenix headquarters, in case any injured members Apparated or Portkeyed back. 

Pale moonlight streamed through the windowpanes, offering just enough light to see by. Distorted shapes and shadows rose from the walls, spreading demon-like wings across the furniture and ceiling. 

A soft, distinct whisper circulated around the room. Remus wished he had cast an Ear Plugging charm on himself when he heard Harry's voice. 

"It's okay, Dumbledore will rescue him. Sirius isn't dead. No, he can't be. No one's dead. Voldemorts afraid of him…"

Remus wanted to fling himself at Harry, stuff a sock into his mouth, and stop the flow of haunting words from the boy's lips. He wanted to concoct a non-existant potion that would set everything right, ease Harry's troubled thoughts. 

"Head down to the meeting room, Remus. Urgent business." 

Dumbledore's voice cracked unsteadily through Remus's wand. Remus shoved his chair back from the desk, standing up abruptly. He felt Harry's stony gaze follow his movements to the door. 

"Can I come?"

Remus doubled over as something twisted sharply inside of him, pity dripping from his every pore. "No, you have to stay. I'll tell you what happens if it's necessary. You need rest, Harry. Please do as I say and stay." 

He hastily pushed open the door and shut it, breathing rapidly, and cast a simple Locking Spell on the knob, thinking that Harry would be too tired to attempt to break through it. 

The torches lining the hallway burst into flames as he passed, striding deliberately to meet Dumbledore. 

*********

_I'm sorry, Remus, I can't stay. I need to know what happened to Sirius._

Crawling wearily out of bed, Harry tried to fend off the massive waves of queasiness and fatigue that rippled through him. His head spun dizzily, causing the room to melt into a blur of nauseating color, the floor bucking unsteadily under his feet. 

Bedpost. Where was that bedpost? He clawed wildly at the air, trying to keep himself standing. His searching hand latched itself onto a solid object. He fought to keep the roilings in his stomach in check, swallowing deeply a few times before closing the distance between him in the door in a single tremulous bound. 

"He locked it," Harry said disbelievingly, rattling the doorknob frantically. He stopped to rescue his wand, which was lying quite despondently by itself in a fold of blanket. 

"Alohomora," he rasped, forcing every last particle of energy he possessed into the door. Instead of swinging harmlessly open, he succeeded in blasting the heavy oaken door clear off it's sturdy hinges. 

"Whoah."  Harry stared unabashedly at the ruined door, frozen to the spot in awe. Feeling suddenly more vivacious, he dashed down the corridor, using a trail of dusty Remus-like footprints as his guide. 

Thanks to the Reviewers:

 **RiddleSta**r: I'm on your fave's? Wow! Yay!!!! ALRIGHT!!!! Thanks for sticking all this way with this story. 

K**aydee**: ***turns red* **Thanks for that MAJOR compliment…best voldie scene other than jk's real ones…that's a huge praise. I loved your review—I love reading long reviews!

**Nighttime Sunshine**: Yeah, I know, Remus _is _a fatherly figure, but he suggested Harry as that's the first thing that popped into his head. Hmmm…that IS a good point though…oh, and you're a GREAT writer, I love your story. 

**Ashley:** Thanks for taking time to review my humble fanfic, which doesn't hold a candle to JK's stories. 

**Tarawan**: I made you teary-eyed! HA!!! MY life's goal! Accomplished! Just kidding. But seriously, that's amazing. Thanks for dropping in and reading and reviewing. Sorry you were confused—were some of your questions answered? You're one of my best reviewers!  

**Amy: **I guess I posted this chapter pretty fast. Thanks for reviewing! J

**Nicky**: Oooohhh *foreboding voice*…do you think Sirius is gonna die now? I'm think I want to leave you hanging for a while longer…. MWAHAHA!

**CrazyStacy:** Thanks for the compliment. I read your stories, and they're sooooo cool! 

**EmmaAuthor:** Thanx! Hoped you liked the rest of it!

S**hanm**: I know exactly what you mean. I get all excited when I get reviews too.

**Leev**a: Hope your satisfied with the way the story's unfolding…keep checkin' back daily, ya hear *puts on a country accent*. J/k. Thanks for reviewing and following my updates!

B**umbleeeBucy**: You have such a cool penname! Hope you were excited during this chappie too. 

**Cyn**: Um, thanks a lot, yeah right. Go boil your head in tomatoes. Flame someone else next time, I don't see you writing any fics.

**Angela**: Thanks! Keep reading!

**Chibi-Chingo**: Just peachy J Imagine, me, with a cool story! Thanks bunches! 

**Miranda Flairgold**: Yeah, I know the Prologue was short, but that's why it's called a Prologue. The other chapters are longer. Thanks for reviewing.

**Niffler:** Well, no one can write like JK Rowling—that's one of the reasons she's a published best selling author and I'm writing for ff.net. 

**Becky:** Thanks for reviewing. 

**  
  
**


	7. Part Six: Two Peas in a Pod

 Vengeance So Sweet 

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all other characters, references, and situations belong to J.K Rowling. No copyright infringement intended

**Spoilers:** All four books

**Rating**: PG (maybe PG-13 in later chapters for darkness…)

**Category: **Drama/Action/Adventure

**Summary**: Fifth year fic centered around Harry. With Voldemort's return to power, a struggle begins between the Light and Dark Side. Harry finds himself in quite a few undesirable situations. Suspense, betrayal, Death Eaters, shaky plots to bring down Voldemort, and all sorts of new stuff. 

A/N: ****** means a jump from one setting or character POV to another. If there aren't any ****'s, then it's the same setting and scene. Please review if you read, and please read! Please, please, please, please? ON my knees begging? With a cherry on top? With whipped cream and nuts and syrup and butterscotch on top? Okay, enough begging from me…have I no shame? That's right, I don't—PLEASE R/R!!! 

**Thanks to all you who reviewed, I'll soon dedicate another 'thanks' section to those who do. **

Part Six: Like Two Peas In a Pod 

It seemed to Harry that the trail of footprints, which betrayed Remus's whereabouts, continued on forever, treading and pressing and forming the dust until they reached the ends of the earth. 

His own tension and anxiety was mounting severely as he traipsed past solemn statues of men with exceptionally big noses, all bearing resemblance to one, Albus Dumbledore, whose gray statue at the head of the others was bewitched so that his eyes twinkled benevolently down at whomever chose ("or dared," offered a small voice in the back of his mind) to pass by. 

The twinkling eyes soon alighted on Harry, who felt an instant shiver run down his spine. What if Dumbledore knew he was here? What is that _was _Dumbledore, only in disguise? 

Disregarding these ridiculous thoughts, Harry pressed onward, relieved to find that the footprints had abruptly ended. However, he was _not_ relieved to find that the footprints ended nowhere—there was no door, trapdoor, or statue of any sort that met him—they simply stopped, as if Remus had suddenly sprouted wings and flown away, or vanished without a puff or trace of lingering smoke. 

"This can't be right…no, there must be a hidden panel somewhere…" Harry reassured himself, running a pair of small, calloused hands over the solid green wallpaper, pushing and prodding at frequent intervals in hopes of hitting a secret switch. 

After checking each mar and scratch in sight, Harry threw his hands at the wall, feeling a strong urge to scream and tear everything down. He slid to the floor, breathing heavily, and leaned his head against the statue of Dumbledore, whose twinkling eyes were immediately riveted downwards to focus on Harry's face. 

A sharp gasp rent the air. Harry hastily stifled the sound, lifting his head so quickly that he almost cracked it against the statue next to Dumbledore's. He adjusted his glasses expertly before shoving his nose into the narrow sliver between the statue and the wall, where something inky and black stained the wallpaper. 

It took a while, but Harry was able to make out what the words said (after discovering that his glasses served as quite a useful replacement for magnifying glasses or charms). 

He scrambled to his feet. 

"Lemon Drops." 

  
Harry found himself instantly borne away in a rush of wind, robes fluttering hauntingly behind him. He was going to find out what had happened to Sirius, for the better or for the worse. 

********

Harry landed soundlessly in a dark closet, the only light being a sliver of yellow from under the door crack. The faint buzz of arguing voices drifted through the flimsy door.

Harry pressed his ear against the wood, trying desperately to hear what was going on. He didn't dare use magic, for fear of it being detected by one or more of the very able and skilled Aurors that were undoubtedly seated in the adjacent room. 

Try as he might, he couldn't hear more than the occasional word, which frazzled him to no end. Finally, he broke his unspoken vow to not use magic and cast a Hearing Enhancement charm on himself. Settling back against the (hopefully) clean wall, he braced himself for whatever was about to be said and heard. 

********

"Severus, what happened?" 

The room was quiet as the Potions Master spoke, voice laced thickly with malice and hate. 

"Voldemort. He discovered our plans. How, I don't know. He hasn't informed me yet—I think he still doubts my true loyalty to him, but it's common knowledge amongst the Death Eaters that he's recruited some sort of spy." Snape paused momentarily, letting his eyes drift over each face, searching for any hint of guilt in each member's eyes or movements. To his bitter disappointment, there was none. He wet his lips nervously and continued. " As for Sirius, it was a Death Eater that took him. I'm sure of it—I think it was Avery Nott. Saw him throw on his hood and sneak around to reach Sirius—tried to stop him, but I couldn't—not with Voldemort standing in front of me… I tried, Albus, I did…, I tried to save that God-forsaken convict, for all I'm worth." 

"Which isn't very much," a low voice grunted, causing Snape's mouth to rearrange itself into a sour line of resentment. 

Dumbledore sent a stern look at the offender, which quelled any hiatus that would have arisen. 

"More importantly, what is to be done?" the old Professor asked, tapping his chin in thought. "Indeed…what measure must we take to save Mr. Black?" 

When Snape spoke, it was with a despondent, cheerless tone. "Albus, I believe I know where Black's been taken—the Death Eaters meet there every time the Mark burns, and we leave only by the Dark Lord's permission—anyone who leaves without it is lost, never to find a way out—it's a labyrinth—simple as that. A dark labyrinth with no exit or solution." 

A slight chill passed through the room, causing the brightly burning torches to flicker ominously. The room was silent. 

"So can you save him?" Remus asked, quietly. "Can you get in there and save Sirius?" His voice had risen in volume, causing many an occupant to flinch slightly. 

"I'll try," was the raspy answer. Snape stood by his seat, head bowed sorrowfully. "I don't know if I can do it—Death Eater's only have access to certain parts—Voldemort will most likely keep Black in one of the forbidden dungeons—highly guarded…" 

"What do you think Voldemort will do to him?" Dumbledore asked, his gleaming spectacles reflecting Snape's apprehensive face. 

"I don't know for sure, but I think—and Voldemort's been known for this technique—torture, break the spirit, and kill. In the worst way possible." 

Remus felt as though he had been punched, several times over, in the same tender spot. He couldn't breathe. His throat had closed off, his lungs refusing to partake in any life-giving oxygen. His head swam with images—Sirius's smiling face, Sirius comforting him, Sirius always there for him…He closed his eyes for a while, forcing himself to take deep, laborious breaths. 

Without warning, he broke the ill-omened silence, his normally collected composure scattered with a single frustrated kick at his chair. 

"We _have _to save him," he said resolutely through gritted teeth. "He would do the same for any one of us." 

Without another look back, Remus stalked to the closet, ready to grab his cloak and leave. He was about to fling open the door when he heard a distraught-sounding whisper. 

"Remus—Remus—it's Harry, please don't open—" 

Eyes widening, Remus cast a brusque look over his shoulder, slightly perturbed to find that all eyes were on him. He opened the closet door so he could slip in, and closed it swiftly behind him. 

"Lumos." 

A light flared to life at the tip of his wand, revealing a sorry-looking Harry Potter. 

His hair was unkempt and tussled, his eyes liquid-looking with pent up emotion. He was curled in a fetal position on the grubby floor, sobbing into tear-saturated sleeves with the air of one that has lost something that would never be regained. 

"Come on, we've got to get you out of here…" Remus whispered soothingly to Harry, bending over and picking him up. "Come on…" 

Gently patting Harry's back, the two disappeared, appearing a split second later in the same part of the hallway Harry had been in right before he had said the two words—"Lemon Drop." 

*********

"I'll keep in touch," Arthur promised, waving a friendly hand at Albus. The meeting had been adjourned a few minutes ago, and most members of the Order of the Phoenix had departed.

Arthur himself wasn't a member—he knew that while he was a skilled wizard, he was nowhere near competent enough to stand off against a tried and true Phoenix wizard. 

In light of recent events, Dumbledore had rallied most of the Aurors, all the original Order of the Phoenix members, and a light smattering of those who, while not abnormally powerful, were outspoken against the Dark and had potentially important connections with various magical people. 

Arthur fit into the last category, and was proud of being considered as a member of 'Dumbledore's team'. 

With a final nod at Dumbledore, he hastily adjusted his woolen cloak, wrapping it tightly around his spindly body before stepping out into the less-than-warm passageway. While most of the others had used the closet to return to Phoenix headquarters, he decided Apparating to the Burrow would be much quicker. 

Arthur was eager to inform Molly of what had happened, and receive her sharp perception on things, but, as he realized as he was traveling down the hall, Dumbledore had given them strict orders to let no news of anything had had just happened or been discussed leak out to the Ministry. A different kind of coldness descended upon him as he stretched his cloak even tighter around himself. To calm his racing pulse, he took up a Muggle tune, one of his favorites. 

"With a smile and a song…life's a bright sunny day…with the sun creeping over the hills…"

"What happened at that meeting, Arthur? You look like death just knocked at you door." Molly bustled across the room, gripping a steaming teapot with her right hand, a tiny porcelain cup balanced perilously on top of the lid. 

Arthur threw himself at a couch, giving himself gratefully to the downy cushions. 

"That's a way of putting it," he admitted, accepting the steaming cup Molly had just poured. 

To be honest, his mind was a bit fuzzy. The last detail he had remembered was him walking down a hallway, ready to Apparate home once he escaped the Anti-apparition wards. Everything that had happened after that was—well, he couldn't quite place a finger on it. It was as if someone had jumped him straight from the hallway to home, skipping the time frame in between, as if the hour or so after the meeting had never happened. 

It was a queer feeling, Arthur decided, and he didn't find it to his liking. His toes and fingers were tingling, almost as though he had shot a dozen hairpin-sized needles through them. It wasn't unfamiliar or anything like that, for he experienced the tingling regularly several times a day, but it was, without question, unpleasant and unwanted. He dismissed it as side-effects of stress, and thought no more of it. 

A/N: **Pay attention to the last few paragraphs. The part that jumped straight from him in the hallway to Molly talking wasn't a poorly transitioned or undeveloped scene—I meant it to be like that. Can you guess what happened there? Brownie points to anyone who reviews, and double the points to anyone who guesses!!! Now keep reading—it's not over yet! **

*************

Sirius squeezed his right eye shut once, then opened it, hoping fervently that the twisted face looming over him was no more than a figment of the worst boogie man his imagination could come up with. 

His injured eye had stopped bleeding, but pain still radiated generously from the area. His only source of sight came from his one remaining eye—the other remained completely blacked out. 

The face didn't dissipate or turn into a piece of furniture—instead, the gruesome smile stretched even more widely over a canopy of black gums and missing teeth. 

"Get up, you." The Death Eater threw back his hood and hauled Sirius roughly to his feet. "Iffen you want that eye of your'n fixed." 

At the moment, that was very much what Sirius desired. He mustered the last of his strength and stood rigidly before the Death Eater. 

The man clenched his fist, pulled it back, and let swing. 

"_Oomph." _Sirius keeled over at the harsh blow, impaired vision reeling, as he coughed harshly several times, not bothering to stop the mixture of blood and saliva falling from his lips. 

"Tell them others that Avery Nott did that 'un to you. Tell them I'm one to be greatly afeard of," Nott hissed before proceeding to melt away into the darkness. "Erwin's comin' down right this-a way."

The shadowed figure of Nott standing in front of Sirius was replaced with a woman, tall and slender, her eyes unnaturally pale and her lips abnormally dark. She was garbed in a plain, flowing black robe, made of satiny material that caught the dim lights when she moved. Her pale eyes watched Sirius stagger to his feet, clutching his stomach. 

"E-erwin?" Sirius choked out wildly. "Are you going to fix my eye? Erwin?"

The woman, rolling back her sleeves in a swift motion, closed the distance between herself and Sirius and placed an unyielding hand on Sirius's left eye. 

Before he knew what had happened, Sirius was on his back again, blinking a few glutinous tears from the corner of his eyes. Erwin was nowhere to be seen, but Nott was towering over him, waiting impatiently for him to get up. Trembling, he put a finger up to his eye, rubbed it a bit, and drew back, expecting it to burst into a torrent of blood. It didn't hurt, and nothing stained his hand. 

Sirius, marveling at the ease at which he could now see, offered a silent heartfelt thanks to Erwin before he was kicked in the ribs by a booted foot which, unsurprisingly, turned out to be Nott's. 

"Get up. The Dark Lord'll be seeing youse now." 

Keeping a firm hold on Sirius, Nott shoved Sirius further into the dark gloom, of which there was no escape. 

Safely hidden behind a crumpling pillar of stone, Wormtail didn't bother to disguise the compassion in his eyes, or the sorrowful moan that escaped his throat.

Of the Marauders, Wormtail had always felt the closest to Sirius—a special kind of mutual friendship had formed between the two, back in the old days, despite the fact that their personalities were as similar as cream and tea. 

Sirius had been the one to chase away the bullies, build up Peter's confidence and reputation, and Peter had been the one to lend council and balance Sirius's loudness with his own natural serenity.

They had shared everything from sweets to secrets. Sirius had been equally close to James, but there were things that Peter kept locked within him that James, in his grave, didn't even know. 

During the Hogwarts times, Peter knew that Sirius wouldn't reveal to a single soul the private things that were told to him, and, even after what Peter did, he knew Sirius still wouldn't freely divulge the information. 

He had been so foolish, so stupid and naïve. Letting himself fall into the beautiful dreams that Voldemort had painted across his mind, when, once, he had scoffed at the seduction the Dark side offered. Betraying his sole friends for nothing more than a few promises which turned out to be _caviat emptor. _Simply for being _himself, _Wormtail, the mindless, weak child that every other person pitied. 

Sirius had never thought him mindless, or pitied him—until now, after everything had been said and done. Actions spoke louder than words, and his had proved him to be mindless and weak, without a backbone. 

And after all these years…Peter would soon sprout the backbone to set things right. 

A**/N: Is it okay? Is anyone confused?** **Drop me a note if you are, or if you simply want to be oh-so-kindhearted and review**. ;-) 


	8. Part Seven: Test? What's that?

**Vengeance So Sweet**

By: Vying Quill

**A/N:** You guys are seriously the best reviewers. These reviews are what gave me the inspiration and motivation to finally get my lazy butt moving and finish this chapter. Please tell me what you think of how this story is progressing, and how this chapter is. Thanks A LOT to the reviewers**!!! **Oh, and this chapter is rated PG-13 b/c of excessive use of four letter words from our friend, Mr. Sirius Black.

**Disclaimer**: Okay, Harry Potter, of course, belongs to JK Rowling. I am just writing this humble piece of fanfic to calm my raging imagination.

**Part Seven: Test? What's that?**

Harry sat stiffly before a small, kitchen table, casting a dark look every so often at an old grandfather clock residing in a far corner of the room. Remus had left only an hour ago, to an Order meeting which he would have let Harry attend, had it not been that he thought Harry needed to rest for a few days to recover his strength.  Going further, Dumbledore had allowed him to stay until the school term started again, in September, rather than just two or three days. Harry hastily obliged, feeling quite happy with the way _that _turned out, though he harbored dramatically different emotions towards other things that had happened the previous night. 

A sudden, violent gust of wind struck the side of the small house, causing it to shudder slightly. Harry jumped, eyes darting about warily for any sign of movement. When there was none, he gradually relaxed, scolding himself gently for being so uptight. 

_Then again, _he reasoned, _with the chance of Death Eaters popping up anywhere, who wouldn't be? _

He wrenched himself from his chair to pour himself a glass of water, wishing fervently that Remus would come back soon. 

He stiffened. Was it his overworked imagination, or did he just hear something unnatural? Harry leaned forward, listening intently. There it was again. A soft creaking noise, as if someone unwelcome were traveling down the stairs, with the full intention of catching Harry unawares. 

Harry straightened his shoulders and reached for his wand. No Death Eater would catch Harry James Potter off guard, and he would give it his best in any duel that might ensue. Wand outstretched, he rounded the corner to the stairwell, falling immediately into the ready dueling stance that had been taught to him during his brief period of training. 

"_Omni Persona Impedimenta," _he said, voicing the first spell that popped into his head. It was an invention of Dumbledores, taught to Harry by the creator himself, designed to work like the original _Impedimenta_ curse in all aspects but one; it stopped large groups of assailants at the same time.    __

Harry stopped short, blinking dazedly as he slowly took in the sight before him. He blinked again, then pinched his wrist, just to be sure he wasn't caught up in a bizarre dream sequence. 

Ron was out in front, the spell having caught him right as he was venturing down onto the next step. Behind him, jammed tight into the narrow staircase, were the rest of the Weasley family, easily identified by their identical shocks of red hair. Harry could make out, peeking up behind the Weasleys, a mop of brown that looked like Hermione. Surrounding her were a dozen or so people that he couldn't recognize from where he was positioned. 

"Happy Birthday Harry," a voice near his ear said. 

Harry whirled around, startled. 

"A spell cast with skill and precision," Dumbledore said, smiling at the strange jumble of unmoving wizards and witches in front of them. "They'll start moving again, though, in a matter of seconds…we'll wait for them come down."

Blushing sheepishly, Harry muttered an almost indistinguishable 'sorry'. 

"That's quite alright—an understandable reaction." Dumbledore shifted his gaze from Harry back to the staircase, where a muffled commotion had arisen. Arms, legs, and elbows flew helter-skelter as the large group managed to migrate from the middle of the stairs to the final step, where they all collapsed wearily. 

Fred and George were the first to get back on their feet, shoving presents eagerly into Harry's arms as if nothing had happened. They grinned innocently at Dumbledore and ran off to the kitchen with a shout of, "_Happy Birthday, m'boy, we're off to check for rodents!"_

"Happy Birthday Harry."

"Nice to see you again."

"Here y'go. I hope you like it."

A stream of people drifted by Harry, depositing boxes in all shapes and sizes into his loaded arms until Dumbledore offered to carry a few. Harry failed to respond immediately, caught up as he was in his own blissful joy. A real birthday party. For _him. _He had only _dreamed _of ever getting so many presents, of having all his friends in a single room, celebrating his day of existence. And it was finally coming true, all thanks to…

"Remus thought it would be a good idea to celebrate your fifteenth, and he, Ron, and Hermione managed to put together this little fiasco," the Headmaster said, before Harry could ask.

Harry nodded dumbly, speechless as he wandered into the kitchen. He dropped his presents carefully onto a large table that had just been erected, then turned around to face the people staring expectantly at him, ignoring the dull pain growing his chest. He had expected to see Sirius there—for a second, he had forgotten, but now, when he searched the sea of faces, he saw none that belonged to his godfather. He blinked away tears. _No, I have to let them think I'm happy, after all the trouble Remus and Ron and Hermione put into this…_

"Wow…it's just…wow…you guys have really outdone yourselves…I-I don't know what to say…or what to do…just…thanks…" Harry choked out, unable to look any of his friends in the eye. 

Ron leapt up to a red-face Harry and pounded his back sixteen times. "One for each year, and another to grow on," he hollered amid the cheers. "Come on, mate, let's start on the presents…I think Mum's in the kitchen cooking, I'd hate to be the poor stove she's banging on…" 

Harry awkwardly accepted the brightly wrapped gift Ron shoved in his face.

When the gifts were all opened, and the floor was littered with scraps of frighteningly gaudy paper, the crowd dispersed, some heading into the kitchen to check up on food, others exploring the house and making small talk. Harry found himself retelling the previous nights happenings to a 

nagging Ron, who insisted he start from the very beginning, when he first met Theo. 

"Ron, really, it's quite boring," Harry tried yet again to dissuade Ron. "Long and boring, exactly the kind of story you hate."

"Could I have a word with you?" Dumbledore tapped Harry on the shoulder while flashing an apologetic smile in Ron's direction.

 _Hallelujah! _Harry looked questioningly at his friend, who shrugged in ill-concealed disappointment. "Sure, Headmaster. What is it?" 

"Alone," Dumbledore said pointedly.  

Ron colored slightly. "I'll be heading out now—refill my drink…" he said hastily, holding up his full cup of punch.

Dumbledore waited until Ron was out of earshot before speaking to Harry, in a quiet, businesslike tone. "I know you're eager catch up with your schoolmates, so I shall get straight to the point. Answer me this--at what age do you think a wizard reaches his or her full potential?"

Harry had no clue to what Dumbledore was hinting at. "Er…when we graduate from Hogwarts. Eighteen." 

"Correct," Dumbledore said approvingly, "After that, we still learn and grow, but our magical ability won't expand much anymore." 

Harry nodded, trying to look as if he understood. 

"And while you are only sixteen—in fact, a new sixteen—I have decided it for the best—in light of Sirius's capture, and Voldemorts rise—that you be tested for your focus factor."

"What? Tested for focus factor?" Harry asked, puzzled. 

"When a wizard graduates from his training school, he is taken in for testing of focus ability. Focus is the essence of magic, and is fully developed 

when a wizard comes of age. Since you will most likely play an important part in future…events, we want to test your focus factor now, to see what you can handle—if you agree, of course. Remus, your guardian as of now, has given his permission."

"What?" Harry repeated, running a hand through his hair in agitation.

"It is, in short, a test of how powerful a wizard is." Dumbledore lifted a white eyebrow. "James and Lilys were exceptional. If you agree, Remus will bring you to the Ministry early tomorrow." 

Harry watched Dumbledore's retreating back, still a bit confused. What kind of test was he to take? Did it hurt? He dropped his punch into the trash and escaped outside, pausing every now and again when someone stepped up to wish him a happy birthday. A walk by himself, he supposed, would do him well. 

********(The next morning)***

Chunky eggs. Chunky porridge. Chunky cereal, immersed in thick, chunky milk. 

"Bloody milk—it's been in the fridge for only a month and its gone and spoiled itself _already._ The Baconshift Farm brand stays for at least a month and a _half…" _Remus muttered, angrily spooning portions of the chunky scrambled eggs onto Harry's plate. 

"Remus? Er…that's enough…I don't think I'm very hungry today. Besides, Dumbledore said not to overdo the food before the testing." Harry prodded distastefully at the eggs, took a small, tentative bite, and pushed the plate away. "I'm not hungry."

"Are you sure? If you're hungry, the test won't go too well either," Remus fretted, untying the apron from around his waist and shoving it absently into the sink. 

Harry sighed, rising from his chair to lay a reassuring hand on Remus's shoulder. "It's _fine, _I'll be _fine, _everything will go _fine," _Harry said, sounding infinitely more certain that he felt. He prayed that things would go as he had said, though an uneasy tugging had sprang to life in the pit of his stomach. It didn't bother him much. He thought that while it could well have been a sign of impending doom, it was most likely the direct result of Remus's atrocious cooking. 

He glanced casually at the clock, turned away, then whipped back around, alarmed. "Remus, we're going to be late!"

Remus headed for the pot of Floo Powder, but tripped over a fold of carpet, which sent him flying into the bookshelf the Floo Powder rested on. The bookshelf wobbled, then collapsed. The pot landed on the floor and spilled over, coloring the carpet a radiant green. 

"Forget about it, I'll clean it when we get home—Harry take a pinch and head to the Ministry of Magic. I'll follow right after you, so clear the fireplace as soon as you land."

Harry quickly obliged, managing to scrape up a bit of the sand-like powder with his fingernails. "Ministry of Magic," he said firmly, waiting for the fire to spring up before jumping in. He watched as grate after grate rushed past him, all the while thanking his lucky stars that he hadn't eaten anything for breakfast. 

When he arrived, he retreated speedily from the fireplace, for fear of becoming a Remus's cushion.

In a cloud of black smoke, Remus appeared from within the fireplace, coughing heavily. His hair stood on end, burned black at the tips. "Some Floo trouble—never liked traveling by fireplace," he said vaguely, aware of the many pairs of eyes that had swiveled around to study him. He pointed his wand at himself and muttered a simple Cleaning Charm before striding briskly to the front desk, Harry hard at his heels. 

The woman at the desk popped her gum loudly to acknowledge his presence. 

"'Scuse me, miss."

The woman, who wore a badge stating that her name was 'Sheila', popped her gum again, but failed to look up.

"_Miss," _Remus repeated irritably. "We would like to know where Testing Room number…" he searched his pockets frantically for a moment before drawing out a scrap of parchment. "Testing room number 7 is."

Sheila blew a large bubble. "Down the hall, third door to your left." Not once did she look up. 

"Help these days," Remus muttered to Harry, who flashed him a nervous grin. "Third door…here we are." 

He pulled open the heavy door, letting Harry enter before he slipped in. 

It was a small, rectangular shaped room, with a large thermometer-like object at one end and a desk, occupied by an immaculately robed man, at the other. Harry was already at the desk, waiting patiently for Remus. 

"Harry James Potter," Remus said. "We have an appointment ready for nine thirty." 

The man nodded. "Are you his guardian?"

"Not legally, but he's living with me for the rest of the summer. Albus Dumbledore entrusted him in my care."

"Then I must ask you to step outside while we do the test," the man said, opening the door with a flick of his wand. 

"See you in a few minutes, then," Remus said with forced cheeriness, waving his hand slightly at Harry, who waved back. 

The man shut the door loudly in his face. Sighing, Remus conjured a chair, not fancying having to stand for the next few minutes. 

*****(back in the room)

"I'm William," the man said, walking over to Harry. "And you're Harry Potter, right?" Harry nodded. 

"Sixteen," William said, scanning quickly over a sheet of parchment. "Usual testing age is eighteen or nineteen. Sixteen's early, isn't it."

"Dumbledore wanted me to," Harry said simply, wishing that William would just start the test already. 

As if sensing his thoughts, William began explaining the procedure. 

"This—" he pointed at the thermometer lookalike next to Harry. "Is the measuring tool. I'll tell you the incantation, you point your wand at this, concentrate on the spell, and perform it. The blue line will rise, and will stop when it reaches the number that represents your focus factor. The average person posses a focus factor of a hundred or above. Very rarely do we have someone who exceeds 300. I believe the highest recorded this century was around 390."

Harry let out a breath of relief. It sounded simple enough. 

"The incantation is _Caminus. _We'll get started now." William moved to the wall, waiting expectantly for Harry.

Taking a deep breath, Harry tried to calm his thoughts and focus his mind on the spell. 

_What if I score below 100? They're all expecting so much out of me…what if I never inherited my parents abilities? Dumbledore, Remus…Sirius will be so disappointed. I'm not powerful. Not powerful. Weak. Sirius was captured because of me. I couldn't protect him, do anything about it. Hermione would be better suited to try this, her factor would go sky-high, but me, I can barely do anything…I'll bet Williams getting impatient waiting for me to start…_

"_Caminus," _Harry declared loudly, shoving aside his worries and pointing his wand at the 'measuring tool'. He squinted anxiously, watching as the blue line began rising slowly…slowly…he must be an awfully untalented wizard. The line was barely even moving now, and it hadn't yet reached the 100 mark. It stopped. 

"Ninety nine," William remarked casually. "Hmm. Well, it's a fair score for someone as young as you are." A quill appeared in his hands and he began marking on the parchment he had been consulting earlier.  

Disappointment coursed through Harry. 99? It was below average. He could be some sort of half-squib. He felt like curling up and melting into the dirt. 

"Can I try again?" Harry asked in a tiny voice. "One more try. I wasn't ready that time." 

William gave his assent. "Though I must tell you, your number probably won't change," he warned before setting the thermometer back to zero. 

_Calm down…I can do this, I can do this…_Harry gathered his thoughts together, banishing all misgivings and frustrations, concentrating on the one task that lay before him. He imagined his magical ability as a vast stretch of interlocking pieces, and used his mind to bring them together, locking all the pieces firmly. Something opened within his chest, flooding through his body in a torrent of burning heat and energy. He noticed faintly that a pulsating glow had crept through his skin, surrounding him like a thin, misty veil. He struggled to keep grip on his wand, to control the violent flow of magic into it.  _Enough, enough, release it before it's too much, _a shrill voice in his head called.  Magic bottled up inside of him, fizzing and sputtering, until every empty space in him was completely filled. He was ready.

_"Caminus!" _

It was like a hole had been punched into his side. A gargantuan burst of light shot out of his wand, engulfed the room, and hit the thermometer. As blinking black spots danced beneath his eyelids, before he slipped out of consciousness, he heard a distinct cracking noise that signaled the breaking of the measuring tool. 

*******************

**(Sirius has been captured for a week now…)**

Sirius sniffed the air hungrily, salivating in large proportions as he let out a very dog-like whimper. He could almost _taste _the roasted loin in his mouth, feel it traveling roughly down his throat, settling comfortably in his stomach….

Voldemort looked bemusedly down at the convict, while waving a spoonful of pudding tantalizingly in front of Sirius' nose for effect. "All this"— he swept a thin arm over an array of platters, laden with food—"in exchange for something you have, that I do not. Though--" he added thoughtfully—"I can give a lot more than mere sustenance."

Sirius's stomach emitted a complaining rumble. It had been days since he ate, since he had last seen sunlight, since he had last seen _Harry, _since he had been _free _from the unbreakable shackles that bound his hands and feet, a constant reminder, a constant taunt, that he would never escape—never—

Oh _no._ He was doing it again. Sirius shook his head abruptly, willing himself to snap out of his hopeless state of mind. If he was to stay strong and resist the Dark forces that would pit themselves against him, he _must _cling onto that shred of hope, fill his every being with unbeatable courage. 

Sirius spent a few seconds wrestling with his rampant emotions, making sure that his face stayed blank while he struggled to collect himself. "What do you want from me?"

Voldemort let loose a guffaw of laughter. "All I want is a bit of information—Dumbledore, Harry Potter, Phoenix plans, anything of the sort will buy your way. Of course, I can't let you free just yet—valuable puppet that you are—but it'll earn you better living conditions." He raised an eyebrow in the direction of a filthy, horrendous smelling caged portion in the corner of the dank dungeon.

Sirius felt a rush of anger swirl in his chest. Was this crazed _maniac _willing to believe that he would betray his friends, his loyalties, for a bit of_ fucking food? _Just like _Peter, _who he used to consider a _friend? _Let James and Lily die in vain when Voldemort would kill Harry with any information he may have gotten from him? 

He was seeing red. Red. It clouded his vision, flooded over him. Blinding, overwhelming, consuming, rage. 

_Voldemort—someday, you will be very, very sorry you ever tangled with Sirius Black. _Sirius' face twisted itself into a cold mask of barely restrained fury.

"Do you know what a damned _idiot _you are?" he breathed, nostrils flaring slightly as he locked his stony, unafraid gaze upon Voldemort. "I'm the big, bad Dark Lord, and I can make anyone do anything for me, I'm so smart and clever, full of strategy," he mimicked, his voice light and pitched to a high falsetto.

 Voldemort's amused look faded instantly, replaced by a hateful sneer. 

"You face is becoming; how can I resist?" Sirius sniggered, his previous fear abandoning him. If he died, he would do it in outrageous style. 

"_Crucio!"_

Sirius sank to his knees, laughing in a manner he had only done once before, when he had been led away to Azkaban. His voice echoed throughout the dungeon, magnified to twice its original volume, before stopping abruptly when the curse was lifted.

Voldemort rolled his eyes at the crumpled form before sending Sirius flying back into his caged prison.   

"I'll be back, Black, and if you don't give in next time…we'll dispose of you." 

Quivering as he stood guard by the doorframe, Wormtail knew, with more certainty that he had mustered in his lifetime, that Sirius would not give in, and would thus be _disposed of_, and that he, Peter Pettigrew, had to do something to stop the foretold disaster.

**********

**  
  
**


	9. Part Eight: In Which Peter Isn't as Stup...

* * *

* * *

**Vengeance So Sweet**

**By: VyingQuill**

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all other characters, references, and situations belong to J.K Rowling. No copyright infringement intended

**Spoilers:** All four books

**Rating**: PG (maybe PG-13 in later chapters for darkness…)

**Category: **Drama/Action/Adventure

**Summary**: Fifth year fic centered around Harry. With Voldemort's return to power, a struggle begins between the Light and Dark Side. Harry finds himself in quite a few undesirable situations. Suspense, betrayal, Death Eaters, shaky plots to bring down Voldemort, and all sorts of new stuff.

* * *

* * *

**Part Eight: In Which Peter Doesn't Seem as Stupid as We Think He Is**

A strangled cry arose from Harry's parched throat, and then fell flat in the dull silence that engulfed the dimly lit room. He swallowed several times, throat quivering, before struggling to pull himself upright from under the starchy, odorous blankets that layered themselves over him.

The room was unfamiliar. Everything, from the translucent towels that covered the flaring lamps, to the scents of metallic blood and rubber that infiltrated the air, seemed wholly unknown. 

His mind, and eyes, were still hazy after being torn from dimensions only sleep could bring. A glass of water on the nightstand next to Harry caught his attention. Without thinking, he brought it up and dumped it over his head. It was colder than he expected, but that was all for the better.

"Feeling alright?" 

Harry jumped, frozen in the process of wringing excess water from his hair, and lifted his eyes slowly. 

"Headmaster? B-but…where am I? What am I doing here? What are _you _doing here?" Dumbledore chuckled lightly. "You're at St. Mungos, finally coming into consciousness after three anxious days, only to awake with me here, eager to tell you of the events that led to this particular outcome. But you aren't insane," he added, noting the horrified look on Harry's face.

"Why am I at St. Mungos, then?" Harry asked. 

"You don't remember what happened?"

Harry thought hard, scrunching his nose in an attempt to revive his memory. "Well…I was going in for focus factor testing…and the first time I didn't do too great…then I tried again…and then…a loud cracking…then…nothing. That's it." 

Dumbledore nodded, satisfied. "The loud cracking was, in fact, the measuring tool breaking. The extent of its numbers weren't high enough for you. You know that the highest focus factor, in this _century,_ was 396?"

"Yeah, the guy in the testing room told me that," Harry said. "But I'm curious to know…who was that?"

"I think you know who that would be."

"You?" Harry guessed. 

"The highest, this _century, _Harry. I'm quite a bit—er—more _advanced _in years than that."

"Voldemort," Harry said, feeling his blood run cold at the very thought. 

"Why the long face? And no, it wasn't Voldemort. His is unknown, though it's obvious that it must be fairly high. It was a man, by the name of James Potter. And you—you are a young man full of unexpected surprises and potential."

"I am?" Harry asked dubiously, shifting slightly. Water was beginning to seep uncomfortably into the seat of his pajamas. 

"439, Harry, 439. Your focus factor has been rounded to four hundred and thirty nine. Quite admirable, if I may say so." Dumbledore paused, watching bemusedly as pure astonishment sank into Harry's eyes, before continuing. "That number in itself leads me to believe, strongly, that you need tutoring. Once term begins, your daily lessons with me will also commence." 

 Dumbledore rose from his chair and made hastily towards the door, looking very much like a stork that has caught sight of a darting minnow. "And now, I bid you adieu."

Harry sat, unable to move, marveling at the way things turned out, and wondering why he had ever thought the room reeked of unpleasant stenches, when, now, it smelt of long-forgotten libraries, enhanced with age, like yellow cheese. 

He wondered if his sense of smell had been muddled by the test.

*********

Sirius lay flat on his back, staring up at a grimy ceiling. Bars of the strongest steel, reinforced with magical barriers, surrounded him like sharp teeth poking out of vast, black gums. A fresh layer of brilliant red blood coated itself over the previous day-old stains. 

It was his. 

He sighed. For the past few days, Voldemort had been, in a rather _forceful _manner, trying to wring bits and pieces of information from Sirius, who adamantly denied knowing anything related to the Light. In a final rush of despair, he had concocted some story of the Order disbanding, Albus dying, and Harry going into hiding. 

Of course, the Dark Lord saw right through Sirius's guises, and dealt him a harsh, lasting blow. 

Sirius winced at the memory. It had hurt an awful lot, and the pain still lingered, for the most part. 

He had just returned from the latest interrogation session, where he refused to divulge anything, and had received his final sentence—he was to be dead by this time the next day. 

The realization shot chills through his spine, but knowing that he couldn't prevent his death, and that he would die with honor, comforted him. At first, he had been numb with the shock, before every nerve in him began coming alive with panic, but now, hours after he learned his predicament, he had accepted the fact quietly, as a child who knew that she deserved her punishment. 

His deadened sense perked up at the hint of a muffled shuffling noise, coming from the general area in front of him. The intruder was too far away for Sirius to discern his features, but he could make out the shadow of a short, stocky man. 

"Show yourself," Sirius said, taken aback by the commanding weaved through his voice. "Show yourself," he repeated, marveling again at the air in which it was said. 

Surprisingly, the man drew forward, cautiously, a silver hand outstretched for protection. 

_Wow, I should be Head Auror or something if I get back…with my 'authority' and all, _Sirius thought excitedly, visions of blue uniform robes and silver, six pointed star badges dancing across his head. He caught himself before he had sunk too deeply in his fantasies, and dealt himself a mental slap. 

"Peter?" he asked incredulously, the second he focused in on the quivering, boyish face. His mouth twisted into a hateful sneer. "You scum. 

Get away from me. _Get away before I kill you," _he hissed contemptuously.

Peter quailed under the coal black gaze. "P-p-please…" he whispered, clutching a lidded container fearfully in his hands. 

"Peter, you proved yourself unworthy years ago," Sirius said, trembling with exertion as he fought to keep from flinging himself into the bars and ripping Peter apart limb by limb.

"I-I know." Peter bowed his head, and, for brief moment, Sirius felt pity well up inside of him. 

They were silent for a while, before Peter plucked up the courage to speak again. 

"Here, quickly, take this before the Dark Lord returns…" he hastily shoved the container into Sirius' arms. 

Sirius regarded the container with hatred, dropping in onto the floor as if it were poison. "Get it away. I don't wish to follow any of your half-witted schemes."

Peter stopped fumbling inside his robes, lifting his head sorrowfully to lock eyes with Sirius. "I'm sorry," he whispered croakily, drawing from his ragged robes a jangling set of keys and another container of brown liquid, similar to the one he handed Sirius. 

Sirius's eyes narrowed. Was it what he thought it was? Polyjuice Potion?

"It's Polyjuice," Peter affirmed, wrenching the lid off his container and motioning for Sirius to do the same. "Put your hair in that one. You take the one I'm holding and drink it…you'll become me, and I'll take your place, and drink the Polyjuice when Voldemort takes you…or me, I suppose, to be…" 

Peter choked, his voice hoarse. "Executed." 

Keeping his face blank and void of emotion, Sirius dropped a freshly plucked hair into the potion, watching as it bubbled furiously and turned into a shade of deep, royal blue. Grimly, he handed his potion to Peter, who unlocked the door and slipped inside. 

Suddenly, Sirius grabbed Peters hand and drew it into his own chest, looking meaningfully into other man's startled face. "Thank you." 

The two words, which spoke legions more than either party anticipated, lingered in the air. The two former friends stood in silence, each with reddened eyes, until Peter cleared his throat and broke Sirius's penetrating stare. 

"Here," he mumbled, holding out his own vial of Polyjuice (which had turned a corrupted grey sort of color). "Take it and go. There are guards outside the dungeon, so drink it soon. Good bye Sirius, and I'm sorry." 

Sirius felt himself propelled out the cell door, and, without another look back, he downed the potion and took off running down the corridor.

Almost immediately, he collapsed in agony, stomach writhing and bucking furiously under him. His skin pulled taut, stretching until he feared it would break. With the savageness of a beast, he clawed despairingly at his face and body, leaving rising red welts where nail raked bare skin. 

When he felt he could stand it no longer, and opened his mouth to release a piercing yell, all was still. His body, still tingling from the transformation, was once again at peace. 

Sirius opened his eyes, letting out a strangely Peterish squeak of surprise when he saw the face hovering unpleasantly in front of him. 

It was Avery Nott.

Sirius bristled immediately, fingers twitching slightly under his ill-fitting robes. This was the man who had brought him to this forlorn hellhole. 

"You!" he snarled, charging straight into Nott, who promptly let out a howl of surprise and wrath. 

"Fool! What are you doing?" Nott said venomously, using raw power to pry Sirius off him.

Sirius regained his balance, and veered to the left, intent on going in for another try. Unused to the small, stubby legs that now accompanied his body, he misjudged the distance and fell flat on his face. Were it not for the fact that he had thrown a hand out to break his fall, he would have a wretched bloody nose. 

"Are youse outta of your mind?" Nott narrowed his eyes, regarding Sirius/Peter with suspicion.  

Sirius failed to answer; he continued staring fixedly at the hand that he had landed on. It was composed of some silvery material. He wrapped this 

hand around his other wrist, and squeezed experimentally, half-expecting the silver layer to crumble off and reveal five pitifully withered fingers. 

An unbidden howl of pain rose from the base of his throat. The grip was awfully strong—_unnaturally _strong. If he had squeezed just a mite harder…Sirius shook his head. He didn't like to think of what would've happened if he had applied more force. 

"What does the Dark Lord see in youse anyway, scum?" Nott hoisted Sirius up once more, and slammed his back into a protruding rock. 

Sirius arched his back in anguish, but kept a rising scream at bay. With renewed determination, he raised his silvery hand, wished it luck, and 

wrapped it around Notts thick, perspiring neck. 

"He sees his demise, my power, and my will," Sirius said huskily, forgetting that he was now Peter. It didn't matter anyways, he told himself, for dead men told no stories. He tightened his hold around Nott, watching in gross satisfaction as purple veins began throbbing under the pale skin. 

Nott's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth uncertainly. With a final gurgle and dying flail, he went limp. 

Sirius released him, gasping for air as if he had been the one suffocated, eyes tracing the path Notts body took as it slid to the floor in a boneless heap.

The full impact of what he had just accomplished finally caught up to him, bringing him back to reality.  

Staring in unbridled horror at both his hand and his deed, he fled, running like a pursued jackrabbit, from his guilt at taking another human life, no matter how worthless or wasted he deemed it.

He had to find his way out of the Dark Lord's lair, or find a sufficient hiding spot, before the Polyjuice wore off. 

He stumbled on Peters weak legs, cursed at them, and kept running. 

*******

A silent circle of Death Eaters awaited their commands, watching warily under black masks as Voldemort paced slowly around them, nostrils dilated. 

"You must have an idea why you were called here," he said in deliberately low voice. 

When he received no answer, his eyes glinted maliciously, and he rounded on the Death Eater nearest him, who was surprised to find that his last taste of life took the form of a rushing green light. "You think, in your foolish and twisted minds, that you can hide from Lord Voldemort. But that is not so!" 

Sudden gusts of wind ripped through the normally airless dungeon, lifting Voldemort's robes off the floor. 

"Silence!" The wind stopped abruptly. Voldemort's thin, lipless mouth curved upwards. "Even the winds know to abide by my laws. But one of you feel the _need _to turn a new leaf—turn _traitorous—_disregard my preset laws." 

Severus Snape, standing only a few paces from where Voldemort was, stiffened, heart squeezing violently in his chest. Undiluted fear spread through his veins. Tiny sweat beads fell unheeded onto the ground, slowly, at first, then quickening in a dance of death with his matching heartbeat. _Drip, drip…dum…dum…_

Voldemort was gradually inching closer to Severus—he could tell, by the slight motion of feet every few seconds, the slight inclination of the Dark Lords spindly body. 

_Run away, save yourself, _a pleading voice in Snape's head called. _Run…run…_But it was too late. Voldemort had stopped right in front of him, and was now observing him shrewdly, calculatedly. 

"Severus Snape. Potions Master," the Dark Lord taunted, raising a finger to his chin in mock wonderment. "So quick of mind…hiding behind a void mask of uncaring…but what is he hiding? Perhaps you can tell us, Severus." 

Severus braced himself, letting his fingers stray to his wand. "M'lord, I don't know what you are referring to. Forgive me."

Voldemort's face contorted in rage. "Forgive you? Forgive you? No, I don't forgive, or forget, Severus, nor am I easily deceived. 

"I have many connections, you see, some stationed carefully within the heart of the Light itself. It proves useful. I truly regret this, but—" 

Voldemort paused to smile snidely at Severus—"I may have to kill you."

Severus's face turned chalky white under his mask. "W-why must you kill me? I have been faithful…"

"Give up your little game. You've been spying for Dumbledore, doing his dirty work, spying on _me…_and all those time Lucius has reassured me that you were faithful…why, he will have to pay, too, after those loyal to me finish gathering your…er…_remaining parts. Accio wand."_

Snape found himself staring at a heap of charred wood, laid over with stray strands of rough hair. "My…_wand." _He stared disbelievingly at the pitiful heap. Gathering his wits, he spoke again. "Thank you, my lord." 

He closed his fist around a small amulet hanging from a chain around his neck. The room was lit by a flash of yellow, which faded away, only to be followed with Voldemort's anguished cry when he saw that Snape's spot in the circle was now empty. 

******

 __

The Much-Deserved Thanks Section:

**OMG, I hit the grand 100! I was sooooo excited when I saw the number…one of my only stories that ever get so much feedback! Thank you _so_ much. **

**Vmr: **Awesome chapter? Why, thank you! That really means a lot. 

**Amy: **It didn't suck? I'm amazed…haha, thank's for reviewing, and for all of your encouragement

**Richan: **Glad to see that at least *someone* likes it :-)

**Ashley: **Thanks bunches and bunches for sticking with me each agonizing step of the way (hehe), and faithfully reviewing each chapter. I appreciate that so much.

**Tarawan: **LOL, yeah, it *might* have something to do with life threatening danger. *thinks about it, then shakes head* nah, couldn't be :P. And of course I'm not bored by your 'rambling'. It was so much fun to read! 

**ADJ: **thanks for giving me so much constructive criticism! I really appreciate that. Helped out a lot, too. Thanks! 

**Kaydee: **what can I say…always there to offer encouragement and suggestions (love reading those long reviews!)…you rock! AHHHHHH! *ducks from all the ripe fruit* And yeah, A Lady of The Ring was the first bad review…but it didn't bring me down too much—the things she pointed out were true. 

**Bumblebeee Bucy: **So far, Sirius is alive…and if 'tis a far better thing' is from that guy in a Tale of Two Cities, it would be very fitting wouldn't it? LOL, I wouldn't know…

**Kay: **Your poor, poor, banged on head. Sirius is alive and well, at this moment…MWAHAHAHAHAHA *chuckles evilly*

**RiddleStar: **Awww…you're too kind. Seriously. Thanks for sticking with me this whole fic, too. You made me really happy!

**LordsBecca: **Wow…I was astonished when I read all your reviews—that good, eh? No way! ThankS!

**Chunkymunky: **Sorry, no romance. Trust me, you do NOT want to see my attempts at romance…you'd be better off jumping off a cliff. Whew…anyways, thanks for reviewing, and sorry again!

**ShadowWolf:  **Surprising, huh? Well, he redeemed himself. Of course, that doesn't make us like him any more…:-) Thanks leaving all those reviews, they're so encouraging! 

**Jords: **Thank you soooooo much for your input and suggestions and opinions. They helped me along a LOT. 

**Shanm: **Thank you for reviewing. I love when ppl review, as you may have notice :P

**Rissa: **My writing is unique? My writing is unique? *runs off screaming* Okay, I'm calmed down. 

**Nicky: **See, Wormtail DID help Sirius. :-) That was only obvious…thank you for taking the time to read and review, and encouraging me the whole way. 

**Shadow Chaser: **Yeah, I liked the closet scene too…very fatherly of Remus. Thank you for your encouragement. I can't believe someone actually thinks my story is cool! Wow…*dies*

**FutureintheStarz: **It's tough to get the personalities spot on…I tried, I really did! Thanks for all your opinions and comments. And, btw, I looooveee long reviews. Longer the better :P

**WhiteWolf: **Thank you for reading all the way through my pathetic and sorry fic, and actually liking it! (or so I'm hoping…) Your review was nowhere NEAR boring, I loved reading it. It's brilliant? Awww….thankyouthankyouthankyou. *starts dancing* FINALS ARE OVER!!! YEAH BABY!!! 

**Jamie C.JC: **Yay, I'm officially cured of sickness! I hope you came back to read this. Thanks for reviewing, and being understanding.

**Ari: **Yep, damn is certainly the right word :-)

**Apassov: **Awwww…thanks! I'm so glad exams are over

**Summersun: **here they are, and be looking for new chapters more frequently now! 

**Ashes: **I don't mind, I'm just glad you decided to step out and review! Thank you soooooo much your kind words…made my day.

**Axel: **No, I hate writing! I wanna quit! No, I'm just kidding. I'll definitely keep writing.

**NotSure: **So, we finally discover that Peter isn't ALL rotten and traitorous..hehe…Thank you for dropping by, and for saying my fic's good! (It's probably not, but thanks for saying so anyways!) 

**FaithMcKay: **Your story was too good not to be reviewed. I'll definitely keep going…and thanks for the encouragement! 

**EnoimreH: **You enjoyed it? Wow, cool. Thanks for taking the time to read. Your welcome (in response to the thank you for reviewing your fic). Voldemort scene scary, eh? Sent chills down my spine too. LOL

**HotLikeFire: **Whew…calm down, calm down…LOL, thanks for reviewing, and I SHOULD say thanks for liking my story, but that's kinda weird, isn't it :P 

**A Lady of the Ring: **well, thanks for giving my fic a shot, anyways. 

**Eevee: **I'm glad it's not like the classic ones—I aim to be different. Thank you for reviewing!

**Witch of the Snitch: **Yeah, join the Dursley hating club. I hate them too :-) LOL…Harry seems to get into a lot of trouble these days. I get annoyed with the stories that have absolutely horrid grammar and spelling, too, so I try to make mine as grammar precise as possible ;P

**CocaCola: **your story wasn't crappy! Anyways, thanks for the compliment

**Fracindy: **Wow, thanks for that heads up! All that constructive criticism—I loved it. I'll try to pay more attention to repitition and try to kill my habit of producing extremely long sentences…and thanks for the compliments, too.

**Mr. Happy Java Man: **LOL at your name…don't worry, I'm laughing WITH you, not AT you :-) thanks for the review

**Robbin McGroin: **Feed the animals? Cool, do you live on a farm or ranch or something? Sorry to your animals, that you had to take time to review and read when you could've been feeding them!

**Baasheep: **I know, but I have no idea how much a pound in British money is worth! I'm hopeless! ACK! Thanks for pointing it out, anyhow. 

**Whew…some of your guesses as to what happened to Arthur were so close you had me sweatin' for a second there! Smart lot, you are. And I forgot who said this, but yes, it was foreshadowing when Sirius thought that Voldie should be sorry for ever messing with him. You'll see how it all unfolds at the end. **


	10. Part Nine: Hang On Tight, Baby, Cause Th...

**Vengeance So Sweet**

**Author**: VyingQuill

**Spoilers**: All four books

R**ating**: PG

**Category**: Drama/Action/Adventure

**Summary**: Fifth year fic centered around Harry. With Voldemort's return to power, a struggle begins between the Light and Dark Side. Harry finds himself in quite a few undesirable situations. Suspense, betrayal, Death Eaters, shaky plots to bring down Voldemort, and all sorts of new stuff.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N**: I had the ***worst* **case of writer's block during this chapter, and I had to practically squeeze my brains out writing this. It's a filler-sort of chapter, with a light-hearted, breezy tone, which is a break from all the darkness we had in previous chapters. Nothing particularly pivotal or interesting happens, so I rushed it along. As a result, the writing is not as 'professional' as I would like it to be. You know that feeling where you're trying to take your story to a specific point, that ending goal, and you just wanna GET to that place and get going with all the good stuff? That's exactly what I felt like writing this. So forgive me! 

Thankyou thank you thankyou thank you thank you guys TONS for the GREAT reviews. 

Part Nine: Hang On, Baby, 'cause This Train's Takin' Off

Snape landed on the clean-swept floor of his office, climbing nimbly to his feet and showing no outward sign of emotions, despite the heaviness occupying his heart. 

He had no _idea_ how attached to his wand he had been, until it had been taken away, reduced to nothing more than burnt ash and cinder. He remembered how crestfallen Hagrid's face had looked, that cold winter's day, when, unwittingly, Snape had gone down for a breath of air, and stumbled in just as Dippet had snapped Hagrid's wand in half. At the time, he had been besides himself with malicious glee, but now he understood what it felt like; like a piece of his being had been sheared away, he mused.

He stood there, hand still clenched about his neck, before an overwhelming sense of urgency overtook him. He dashed out of his office, every pretense of a calm and superior demeanor dashed as he flitted ghostlike through the hallways, face screwed up in an expression of agony as he strained to recall what Voldemort had said to him, down to the very last word. 

_Traitor…spy…information…_The words came to him, and disappeared back into the shadows as he tried, with slowness that contrasted sharply to the rapid pace in which he moved through the corridors, to piece together his memories. 

_Yes…a spy…he said he had his 'sources'—_Snape sailed down a final flight of stairs, feet barely touching the ground—"_connections station within the light itself!" _

The information registered in his mind, just as his body jerked to an abrupt stop right in front of a frighteningly realistic stone gargoyle. The corridor was deadly silent, save for the sound of heavy, forced breathing as Snape tried to regain the use of his lungs. 

"Butterscotch," Snape wheezed, then collapsed into Dumbledore's brightly lit office, the adrenaline previously circulating through his system filtering away, leaving him instantly aware of his aching joints and burning muscles. 

"Severus?" Dumbledore rose from his desk, unfazed by Snape's sudden intrusion, and guided the Potions master to a large armchair. "Would you like a mug of chocolate?" 

_That sounds alright. _Snape sank into the downy cushions, and, before he could give his consent, Dumbledore conjured a large, steamy cup from thin air. 

Gratefully, Snape wrapped his numbed fingers around the mug, took a deep sip, and began talking, occasionally slurring his words in his hurry. 

"Voldemort—he knows about me spying for you—would've killed me if it hadn't been for that Portkey you gave me. When I denied turning traitorous, he said for me to stop playing games—that he had gotten information from the heart of the Light itself—that means the Order—Albus, someone in the Order isn't what you think."

Dumbledore heaved a tired sigh, bringing a pondering finger up to his chin. "Why didn't I see this before? Now, the most important question isn't _who_, but _how_. Do you recall Arthur's mysterious disappearance? Voldemort, I am almost certain, used that opportunity to cast some sort of spell."

"I myself administered the Veritaserum, so Arthur couldn't possibly be fibbing….A memory charm, then," Snape suggested, taking another drought of chocolate. Comforting warmth spread through his body in pleasant waves. 

"Doubtful…Alastor failed to break through any memory charms, if indeed that was the case. I'll call an immediate meeting first thing tomorrow. Severus, if you could, please brew up one serving of Revealing Potion, the one that turns the drinker blue if a curse has been placed on them…the first step is to confirm my suspicions of Arthur suffering under a curse." Dumbledore nodded curtly, thereby closing the subject. 

"It'll be ready tomorrow," Snape promised, and exited Dumbledore' office, steeling himself for the exhausting night to come. 

*************

Harry smiled gratefully at Remus, who had taken the liberty to drop him off at the Burrow once the staff at St. Mungos deemed him perfectly sane, and stood unmoving at the doorstep until Remus's gray-cloaked figure was no more than a pinprick in the vast blue sky. 

He knocked on the worn door and leaned back on his heels, waiting for it to open, before a suspicious jolting racked his body. Panicked, Harry reached out for the doorframe, clamping his mouth down tightly to minimize the chance of him biting down on his tongue. The jolting continued, quite beyond his own control, until Harry, humorlessly, considered flying back to St. Mungo's for a straitjacket. 

In much the same fashion as it had come, the jolting stopped.

Harry tentatively opened one eye, making sure that nothing was awry before daring to open the other. 

"It works!" A gleeful voice rang through the air, startling Harry from his laborious task of analyzing each door panel. 

"Good thing the door opens inward," another voice said, with forced sincerity, as Harry leapt up from his crouched position, reeling backwards and tripping over his luggage as he did so. 

"Yeah, would've been quite a head-banger," the first voice said. 

Harry scrambled to his feet, almost crashing into two sets of toothy, mischievous grins. 

"The regular klutz, Harry is," Fred laughed, placing two calloused hands over Harry's shoulders to steady him. 

Still panting heavily, Harry stared in open disbelief at the twins. "W-what was that?"

"Me and George chanced upon a pack of those Muggle shock patches an' fiddled with them a bit until the shock increased by quite a bit. They're 

stuck all over the door." Fred said all this proudly, occasionally reaching out to caress the doorframe lovingly. 

"Top notch, it is. Whoever touches the door, other than a Weasley, is in for a _shocker," _George snickered, swinging Harry's bag easily from the ground and throwing it across his broad shoulders. "Come on in. Try not to tell Mum about this little…er… _incident_."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Harry said innocently, a who-me? look taking residence on his face. 

Fred said something rapidly under his breath, which sent George into hysterics. Harry narrowed his eyes curiously at them, but failed to retort when a feather-duster hurled itself into his face. 

_A feather duster? _Harry thought grumpily, detaching a twittering Pig from his blackened cheek and shoving the hyperactive owl unceremoniously into a bookshelf. _Dratted owl; I thought Sirius had better taste than that. _He gave Pig what he hoped was a menacing glower, and resumed tagging along behind Fred and George. 

A quarter of an hour later, after Harry's luggage was safely stowed upstairs and he had finished relating his tale to the awestruck Weasleys (who, Harry decided, were as good an audience as the next), Ron suggested, in an openly uncomfortable fashion, that they invite Hermione over.

Harry agreed at once, and so they headed up to Ron's room. Pig followed them closely, battering playfully at their backs while they refused to acknowledge him. 

"We'll use Errol for this one," Ron said, directing the comment at an indignant Pig. He signed his name at the bottom of a brief note, fastened it to Errol's leg, and was about to send it off when another owl, mousy brown in color, barreled into the room, bringing with it a tirade of scornful hoots. 

It dropped a rolled-up edition of the Daily Prophet on top of Harry's head, and flew back out again. 

"It's late; usually comes during breakfast," Ron said, flinging Errol forcefully out the window. 

Harry scowled as Ron patted his head sympathetically, then lost interest in whatever Ron was saying in retaliation. "I should start a subscription, too, over the summer," he said, licking his thumb and flipping the page interestedly.

"Wait—hold on," Ron interrupted, ripping the Prophet forcibly from Harry's hands and turning it back to the page Harry was previously on. He jabbed a finger at the bold headlining. 

Last Call: Tenth Annual Adult and Underage Duelmaster Tourney 

**_~Date~_****August 7-9**

**_~Prize~_****1,000 Galleons and a complimentary Algorivich wand, hand-made and customized for the winners**

**~_Fee~_ Ten Sickles to gain entrance**

**_~Location~_****Diagon Alley Stadium **

**_~Official Rules~_**** Each contestant(s) will be sorted into either one of two main divisions [Underage Wizards; Of Age Wizards] and into a subdivision [Single; Doubles]. Duel's are overseen by a fully qualified referee, and are preset by Head of Gaming and Sports, Ludo Bagman. The Tourney lasts for the duration of two days. Walk-in applicants accepted.**

"This is it, Harry, my chance to earn a bit of extra money! I don't know why I haven't seen it before…but _blimey_, it's _tomorrow_, I could win _1,000_ galleons…" Ron trailed off, waiting for Harry's opinion. 

Harry turned the idea over in his head, reread the ad, and shrugged. "I suppose it'd be okay…Ron, d'you know how many kids are going to enter? 

Our chances of winning are slim, I'll bet loads of them are _geniuses_," Harry warned, not wanting to raise his friends hopes, or his own. 

Suddenly, Ron's shoulders slumped. "That's the least of my worries, at this point. Ten Sickles. How am I going to find that kind of money by tomorrow?"

"Don't worry, I'll pay for us. We can duel as a team, in the Doubles category," Harry said, clapping a hand on Ron's shoulder. 

"Are you okay with that?" Ron asked, his voice strangely tight as he fought to suppress his rising excitement. "I'll ask Dad then!" 

Ripping the page from the bindings, Ron barged out of the room and skidded into the hallway, nearly upsetting Ginny, who was carrying a large mound of freshly pressed robes.

Ginny mouth formed an 'o' of surprise as she glanced questioningly at Harry, who grinned and hopped off his bedside perch. 

"Don't ask, you'll be finding out about it soon enough," he said amusedly, taking the top half of the pile of robes Ginny was holding. "So, where to?"

Ginny blushed furiously and pointed a finger at what Harry supposed was a closet. Unfortunately, in her nervousness, she released her hold on the robes, sending them tumbling to the ground in a flurry of black fabric. 

"Oh, I'm so sorry…Mum's going to kill me for dirtying them," Ginny said breathlessly, bending down at the exact moment Harry also decided to pick up the robes. "Ow!" 

Harry fell back onto his haunches, rubbing the spot on his forehead that Ginny had bumped. Across from him, robes pooling around the spot where she sat, Ginny was doing the same thing. She reddened considerably, shoveled the laundry haphazardly into her arms, and scrambled into her bedroom. 

"You left one?" Harry called timidly into the ringing silence. The door Ginny had disappeared into opened slightly, allowing a hand to shoot out and grab the robe Harry was holding. 

"I guess I'll see you around, then," Harry said politely, turning to follow Ron's path down the stairs. A muffled noise came from the door, and, guiltily, Harry jogged down the rest of the way, taking the steps two at a time.

"What'd he say?" he called loudly, reaching the bottom of the stairs and bursting into the living room. "Ron?"

When there was no response, Harry ventured cautiously into the adjacent room. 

"About time you came down," Ron said, turning away from Mr. Weasley, who was seated at a makeshift table, tinkering with a pile of rusty junk. He faced Harry, the corners of his mouth drooping downwards. "I'm afraid that…he's letting us do it!"

"Really? That's awesome," Harry said earnestly, bobbing his head courteously at Mr. Weasley. "So, is everything set to go?"

Ron punched a fist into the air and let out a loud whoop before collecting himself. "Yup. Hermione's already coming over tonight, and Dad insists coming with us tomorrow, to 'help us deal with the pressure', but we're GOING!" Ron grabbed Harry's elbows and forced him into performing some kind of jig with him in the middle of the room. 

"R-ron—really—stop—" Harry sputtered, trying desperately to clamp his hands around a solid object as Ron lifted him off the ground and spun him through the air.

"Picture?"

Startled, both boys stopped dancing (or, to be exact, Ron stopped spinning Harry like a top), still gripping each other by the sleeves. Grinning widely, Fred whipped out a camera and began happily clicking away, until Harry came to his senses and yanked himself from Ron's grasp. 

*******(the next morning)****

_"Oy! Wake up!" _Ron threw a pillow at Harry, who let out a massive groan before turning over. Delighted, Ron retreated from the room, and reappeared a few minutes later, holding a pitcher of water between his hands. He towered wickedly over Harry, great chunks of ice clinking ominously against the pitcher, before turning it upside-down with a deft flick of his wrist.

To his astonishment, Harry chose that exact moment to roll off the bed. The ice-water splashed harmlessly onto the bed, and Harry muttered something unintelligible before falling asleep again, pressing the blanket to his body tightly. 

"Good riddance!" Ron agonized, throwing his hands up in frustration. "Harry, _please_ wake up, or we'll miss the Tourney. Wake up for your ol' pal Ronnekins?"

A sly grin spread across Harry's complacent face. "Of course, Ronnekins," he said, eyes snapping open. He turned his gaze to the sopping mattress, let loose a mischievous chuckle, and darted out of the room, before Ron could throttle him. 

Upon reaching the kitchen, Harry saw that most of the Weasley's were already up and about. Hermione, who had arrived prior to dinner the previous night, was sitting next to Mrs. Weasley, a plastic fork dangling uselessly between her thumb and forefinger. To no one's surprise, she was deeply immersed in a hefty volume open on her lap. 

"Mornin'," Harry greeted thickly, brushing frantically at his rumpled day-old clothes. "Why isn't anyone eating?"

Mr. Weasley glanced up from a new edition of the Daily Prophet, raising an eyebrow at Harry and jerking his head inconspicuously in the direction of 

Fred and George.

The twins wore matching hideous purple-and-pink-striped aprons over their traditional black robes. Both held a spatula awkwardly in his hand. After squabbling furiously with each other about the amount of spices used in an omelet, they resolved the conflict by pouring sizeable amounts of each available spice over the bubbling eggs. 

Harry stuffed a fist inside his mouth to stifle his laughter when Fred and George left the stove, carrying between them a large platter of pale orange omelet. 

"Me n' George'll be glad to make more," Fred promised, slipping out of the apron and sliding into an empty chair. "Oy, Hermione! Try some!" He wrenched the plastic fork from Hermione's loose grip and dug it into the sticky mass of egg. Without warning, he clamped his hand around Hermione's jaw, forced it open, and shoved the omelet inside.

Hermione emitted a shrill squeak of surprise, choking slightly as she chewed. "F-fred! I was busy," she sputtered with as much dignity as she could muster, through a building layer of tears in her eyes.

"Too much pepper?" Mr. Weasley asked kindly, offering Hermione a checkered handkerchief. Hermione nodded and dabbed at her eyes. Mr. Weasley waited until she was finished before speaking again. "Are you sure you don't want to enter the duel? It'd be a fantastic experience."

Hermione shook her head resolutely. "Mum thinks it's too dangerous, and, besides, I don't think I'll be able to duel against Ron _or_ Harry."

"Aw, you know you'll beat us," Harry said, looking up as Ron shuffled briskly into the room. "Morning," he snickered, eyeing the trail of water that led to the kitchen. 

"Don't ask," Ron grumbled, in response to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's questioning stares. 

"It's not the issue of beating anyone, it's the issue of having to curse you and disarm you…I don't think I can go through with that," Hermione corrected, snapping her book shut. 

Harry nodded and left it at that. "Ron, we'd better go and get—"

A sudden pop rent the air. Reflexively, Harry leapt up, wand out and ready, only to tuck it sheepishly back into his pocket. Behind him, he could hear a wave of rustling as other wands were stowed safely back into pockets. 

"Early up, Amos," Mr. Weasley said jovially, striding past Harry to greet Mr. Diggory, who was clearly in a frenzied state of mind, judging from his robes, which hung crookedly on his frame. It appeared that Mr. Diggory had been in such a hurry to get dressed that he accidentally stuck his head into an armhole. A telltale split seam ran down the sides of a sleeve that hung around his neck. 

"Arthur, urgent meeting called by Dumbledore, we've got to get going immediately," he said breathlessly, fidgeting uncomfortably beneath is ill-fitting attire. 

Mr. Weasley pressed his mouth together resolutely, and followed after Mr. Diggory's retreating back. "Hermione, you watch over Harry and Ron and keep them out of trouble. I won't be able to go, but you three should be fine. The area will most likely be heavily guarded, lots of spectators, so you'll be safe. Good luck to you boys," he called over his shoulder before Apparating away. 

"Fred, George, you help me clean up, Hermione, Ron, and Harry, take the Knight Bus to Diagon Alley—we ran out of Floo—see you three in two days, and be safe," Mrs. Weasley said, breaking the heavy silence. She swept Ron into a tight embrace, and followed suite with Harry and Hermione. Gently, she ushered them out of the kitchen. As they left the Burrow, they heard her saying something, followed by a chorus of complaints. 

"Glad we're not in there," Ron said, shutting the front door behind him and joining Hermione and Harry on the curb. 

_BANG! _

The trio reeled backwards by a forceful gust of wind. 

"Sorry, I should've warned you guys when I raised my wand," Hermione said apologetically, dusting off her robes as a large purple bus pulled up in front of them. "Have you got your money?" 

The doors opened, and a short, pink-faced man hopped out, dressed in a baggy blue uniform. "Knight Bus, instant transportation for all your needs. That'll be five sickles please." 

Hermione stepped up first, dropping five glinting Sickles into the conductors palm. Harry went next, and he pulled out ten Sickles. Ron's mouth dropped open in protest.

"I'll pay for myself, Harry," he said determinedly, picking out five Sickles from the conductor's hand and replacing them with his own five. "Thanks anyway though."

Sighing in frustration at his friend's stubbornness, Harry ploughed into the bus, surprised to find that all the beds were nearly filled. 

"Over here!" 

Harry turned around to see Hermione waving from an unoccupied bed in the corner. Grabbing Ron's elbow, the two began weaving their way through extra sofas and chairs. A lurch knocked them off balance, sending them, fortunately, flying into the bed Hermione had saved. 

A few seconds later, after much grumbling and jabbing, Harry and Ron managed to disentangle themselves and sit upright at the edge of the bed. 

Hermione immediately began speaking. "To prepare you two for the duel, I brought along several dueling brochures." 

"But shouldn't we save our energy for the duel?" Ron asked, shrinking back as Hermione shot him a venomous look. "Okay, okay, we'll do whatever you say…" 

************** 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exited the Knight Bus, each sporting queasy stomachs and wobbly legs. 

"So where d'you suppose this thing is?" Ron put a hand over his eyes, to block the bright sunlight, and rotated slowly on the spot. 

"The Stadium's right there," Hermione gasped, pointing at a building directly in front of them while clutching feebly at her stomach.

Harry temporarily forgot his nausea, too busy being enthralled by the splendor of the Stadium to care much about his discomfort. "Amazing…" Before him lay a massive domed structure, covered with elaborate, fluid script. The whole east side of the building was constructed wholly of crystalline glass, revealing the ample area inside. 

The double doors leading into the arena were teeming with people, shoving impatiently at each other to get in. The applications booth, next to the entrance, was surprisingly devoid of lines or people. A few lingered around the area, applying for last minute entry. 

"I guess we should head over there," Harry said. Eagerly, Ron jogged up to the wizard behind the counter, who greeted him warmly. 

"I'd like to be a contestant in the Tourney," Ron said formally, leaning casually against the counter. "Underage Wizard, in the Singles Division."

Hearing this, Harry rushed up to Ron, alarmed. "_Ron, _I thought we agreed to do Doubles. You know, dueling two-on-two."

Ron gave Harry an uncharacteristically contemptuous glare, before dropping his gaze timidly to the black asphalt. "I know but…I want to do this alone, you know? It's my chance to really stand out, and not be known as—Harry Potter's sidekick…" 

Harry was silent, not knowing how to react to Ron's announcement. Hermione laid a hand on his shoulder and gave him a reassuring look. 

"I didn't know you felt that way. I thought dueling Doubles with you would be a time for us to…work together, as a team. Not as Harry Potter and his sidekick," Harry said, after a few terse seconds had passed. "I-I honestly didn't know you felt that way, but if you want to duel Singles, I'm not stopping you." His mind reeled with numb disbelief and hurt as Ron grinned happily and began filling out an application form, oblivious to Harry's injured expression. 

"Harry, go on and sign up." Hermione guided Harry to the next open window.

"I don't think I want to anymore," Harry said wryly, backing away from the counter as if it were some sort of monster. 

Huffling loudly, Hermione turned away from Harry. "One entry form, ma'am," she said firmly, deliberately ignoring Harry's protests. 

"Call me Gwyn," the witch said, gesturing at her nameplate. She whipped out an application form and laid it out in front of Hermione, who beckoned for Harry to fill it out. 

Grudgingly, Harry took up the quill and began slowly scrawling his name across the top. 

"Honestly, Harry, you can stand to be a little neater," Hermione objected, watching disapprovingly as Harry began sloppily filling out the required fields. 

"We don't get many last-minute contestants. Most of 'em sign up and begin preparing for this months ahead of time," Gwyn commented as Harry scanned the rules. "Don't bother reading them, I'll tell 'em to you."

"Thanks," Harry said tonelessly, sneaking a peek at Ron.

"You're obviously underage. Which division are you participating in?" 

Harry stiffened. "Singles," he muttered, feeling a rush of angry heat rise in his cheeks. 

"Mm hmmm…" Gwyn's quill sped furiously across the page, filling in blank after blank. "All done. Just pay the fee, and you're all set. This folder contains everything you'll need to know; the section your first duel will be in, the time, your opponent, and the referee. The Leaky Cauldron has offered free rooming to all the duelists not eliminated by the end of the day." She flashed Harry a bright smile and slid the folder over the countertop. Harry paid his ten Sickles, and thanked Gwyn. 

"Where's Ron?" he asked immediately after they left the booth. After receiving no answer from Hermione, he scanned the crowd himself for a mop of red hair, spotting the telltale flash of color lingering near the entrance. 

Pushing through masses of moving bodies, he, with Hermione following in his wake, managed to clear a thin path to Ron, who was, at the moment, absolutely ecstatic. 

"Ready to go in?" Ron stowed his folder safely in his robes pocket, where his wand was. 

Despite his reluctance to sign up, Harry was now beginning to feel the first strains of excitement rise up in his stomach as he entered the structure. The interior of the stadium took Harry's breath away, with its majesty and sheer size. Levels of rising bleachers, now crowded with wizards and witches hopeful of winning the Tourney, ringed around the center of the stadium. The dueling grounds were sectioned off into a good dozen separate box-like rooms, to allow for multiple duels. A layer of transparent glass served as a roof for these rooms, allowing any bystander to see the goings on. 

"Who are you assigned to first?" Ron asked Harry nervously, flipping tersely through a bundle of papers. 

Harry chanced a peek at his folder. "I've got…" His face fell. "Marcus Flint."

Ron grimaced, and looked as if he were about to say something when Ludo Bagman, dressed in his trademark Winbourne Wasps robes, stepped 

onto the stage, beaming when a roar of approval rose from the constant hum of chatter.

"Welcome to the Tourney!" 


	11. Part Ten: DingDing, the First Round OR C...

**Vengeance So Sweet**

**Author**: VyingQuill

**Spoilers**: All four books

R**ating**: PG

**Category**: Drama/Action/Adventure

**Summary**: Fifth year fic centered around Harry. With Voldemort's return to power, a struggle begins between the Light and Dark Side. Harry finds himself in quite a few undesirable situations. Suspense, betrayal, Death Eaters, shaky plots to bring down Voldemort, and all sorts of new stuff.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

A/N: Yes, I admit, I made some stupid mistakes in the last chapter…thanks to Kaydee and Noura and any others who pointed out that Snape was NOT in school in Hagrids time…I was thinking that since he knew Lily and James, he was schooled also in their time, thus also in Severus's time…but I forgot that Hagrid was way past his adolescence when he knew the Potters.  

Thank you MILLIONS and BILLIONS for the reviews. They were AWESOME, and made me unbelievably happy. I planned on finishing off the Tourney in this chapter, but it was beginning to get a bit lengthy, so I promise that the next chapter will cover it all. 

Chapter 10: _DingDing, _The First Round

OR

Closer With Each Turn

"Welcome to the Tourney!"

Diagon Alley stadium erupted into ground-quaking cheers, unequaled by any earthly sound other than a herd of stampeding, overly large elephants. 

The bleachers were packed so tightly that not even a child's forefinger could be wedged into the nonexistent space between each person. The doors had been closed, but remained unlocked, to allow any late, non-competing stragglers entrance. 

High up on the magically elevated platform, Bagman was positively radiant with youthful exhilaration and zeal. 

It took ten minutes, no less, for the sound of voices to die down enough so that Bagman, face reddened from the exertion of yelling, could be heard (heavily muscled guards had been sent out into the crowd, ordered to quash those who were 'exceptionally rowdy').

"Once more, I say welcome! For the next time we meet, it shall for a painful parting. Today, and the day after, promises to be the best many of you have ever seen. 

You will be embroiled in the toughest duels you've ever fought—or imagined—against the best duelers the magical world has to offer. Each of you has already been assigned an opponent, a time, a section, and a referee. The first person to be disarmed in each duel is eliminated; free to leave the Stadium if they wish. Any dangerous Dark magic, and the three Unforgivables, is prohibited. The winner is assigned another opponent, until there are only two remaining in each category; or four, to those in Doubles.  Towards the final stages of the Tourney, all the battles will take place in the main arena—" Here, Bagman gestured toward the twelve rooms Harry had been observing earlier—" Until then, all duels take place in the hidden wings of the Stadium. The winners receive the prize money, a handcrafted, superior quality wand, and, most importantly, honor and respect. Good luck." 

Bagman stepped down from the stage, waving as he was directed into a darkened doorway, flanked on both sides by officials wearing pinstriped shirts.

Immediately, the stadium erupted into absolute, uninhibited bedlam. Wizards dashed down the bleachers, cramming into the multiple doors leading to the back wing. The air was thick with anxiety and mismatched hats, which had been whipped off their owners' heads in the mad rush to the doors.

For every few steps he took, Harry was shoved backwards another few steps by the crowd, so it came as no surprise to him when he discovered that Ron and Hermione had been separated from his side. Silently, he wished Ron the best of luck, and began battling his way rigorously through the multitude, grateful, for once in his life, that he had a light build.  

Ignoring a rather snappish comment directed at him from a thick-necked witch, he continued wriggling his way through the assembly, concentrating only on two things: to keep a tight grip on his manilla participants folder, and to hold a steady path to the doors. 

Seconds trickled by, where Harry was unaware of anything but his own laborious breathing, until he caught a glimpse of heavy oaken wood from over his glasses, and was stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Your folder, sonny," said a haggard official barring the doorway. He took the proffered folder from Harry and spoke again, this time into a mouthpiece extended from a set of purple headphones. "Sending H. Potter to M. Flint, Room 70 AAC."

"Er—excuse me?" Harry spread his hands over the doorframe, steadying himself as the jostling behind him increased. 

"Walk in here and press the button at the back of the room—you can't miss it," the official said edgily, seizing his sparse gray hair in an ill-concealed effort to quell his aggravation. Harry thanked him politely, and was rewarded with a muffled "I need a break,"

Taking his folder from the official, Harry stepped into the indicated space, which turned out to be a small closet covered in shabby black wallpaper. A gleaming red button protruded from the back wall, spanning the distance from one side of the closet to the opposite one. 

"Well, obviously you can't miss this— completely nutters, the lot of them," Harry muttered, his frustration getting the better of him. He threw himself viciously into the button, not knowing, or caring, what would happen next. 

It felt like Floo powder—without the soot. He was hurtling through the darkness at incredible speeds, hardly daring to move for fear of having a limb lopped off by any jutting obstacle. _How would I hold my wand if my hand came off? _With a last valiant effort, he lifted his wand arm and was about to shove it inside his robes when he stopped zooming vertically, and instead plunged straight downwards into a hollow abyss. 

"Merlins teeth," Harry gasped watching warily as a generously padded floor emerged from the black depths. He was deposited gently onto the aforementioned floor, which was quickly joined on four sides by cushioned walls, and, with a resounding _BAM!, _another square settled on top of the erect wall-pieces, serving as a ceiling. 

"Took the puny Gryffindor long enough."  
  


Harry scrambled to his feet, facing the speaker indignantly. "Marcus Flint?"

"None other," the older boy sneered, twirling a wand lazily between his fingers. "I'll have the immense _pleasure_ of beating you soundly."

"You've gotten stupider, if you think that," Harry shot back, glaring venomously at his adversary. 

Flint's face blotched, and he lunged towards Harry. Without warning, he was flung backwards, as if some invisible barrier had sprung up between the two.

"No fighting prior to the actual dueling." A wizard, whom Harry hadn't taken notice of during the heat of the moment, materialized from the shadows. He snapped his fingers twice, and the room brightened considerably. Three more snaps widened the room, until it was roughly the size of an average Hogwarts classroom. "I'll be refereeing this match. I take it you two are acquainted, and ready?"

Harry retreated to his end of the room, where a bottle of water had been set out for, he supposed, use as he saw fit. 

"We are." Flint spoke for the both of them as he leaned leisurely against the wall, focusing intently on Harry, who eyed him as a rabbit caught in headlights would. 

Harry had to admit reluctantly to himself that Flint made quite an intimidating picture, being tall, wide in girth, and exceedingly nasty. 

"You know the rules, and will abide by them?" 

"Yeah," Harry said, looking sideways at Marcus, who grunted incoherently.

 The ref, satisfied with the answer, withdrew into a far corner of the room, leaving two words remaining in his wake—_"Ready…duel!"_

Harry's first instinct was to jinx Flint and barrel into his ample stomach, but, in a sudden flash of remembrance, his week's worth of training rushed back to him, as promptly as it had seemed to leak out. 

_Duel at ease—wait for your chance, and attack swiftly. _Unbidden, Flitwicks shrill voice sprang to life in the back of Harry's mind, urging him onwards as he readied himself. _Predictable, he is; a Body Bind. Makes him easy to deal with. _

Blocking Flint's spell effortlessly, Harry launched into a vicious onslaught of simple curses, not bothering to aim or put any real force behind them. 

A small blister formed where a weak Burning Charm had nicked Flint's wrist. He regarded the blister, prodding it callously with his wand tip, and smirked at Harry, amusement flickering between his wide-set eyes.  "That's the best you've got?" he goaded, shaking his head in mock disappointment. 

Harry allowed himself a wry smile in Flint's direction. "No, those were only to throw you off your guard." With agility borne of natural skill and practice, Harry sent a massive _Expelliarmus _at Flint, who was hurled into the wall like a mere rag doll. 

His wand sliced smoothly through the air, tracing a blatantly obvious path to Harry's extended palm. Pure horror worked itself into Flint's grisly features, morphing into an expression of unmistakable disbelief when Harry took a purposeful step to the left, leaving the wand to clatter at his feet. 

"Pick it up." 

Not having to be told twice, Flint pounced upon his wand and slinked calmly back to his corner. "Foolish," he sneered to the younger boy. "Thanks for the act of charity, but I think now would be a good time to end this match." He swung his wand upwards, pointing it directly at Harry's head. "_Stupefy!" _

The room was bathed temporarily in a bloody red color before fading back to its former pristine white. The referee, who had been watching the goings on intently, jumped almost imperceptibly at the scene now laid out in front of him. Instead of _Harry_ laying Stupefied on the floor, it was _Flint_ instead who was crumpled motionlessly in a shapeless heap, wand poking out from under his gluttonous stomach. 

"Have I won?" 

The referee gurgled unintelligibly, gaping first at Harry, then switching his gaze to Flint's prone form. "I—I—you—he—yes."

"Spiffy," Harry said tonelessly, with the unenthusiastic air of someone who had volunteered to stay behind from a party to dust the furniture. "What now?"

Having recovered sufficiently from his shock, the wizard congratulated Harry profusely, shook his hand, showered another barrage of praise upon the blushing boy, and sent him on his way, with explicit instructions on what he was to do next.

Match—Harry Potter.

**************

"Ready, duel."

Ron, fumbling with his wand, narrowly avoided an elementary Leg-Locker curse his challenger, a short boy with matted brown hair, shot at him. 

Thinking it best to stay on the defensive side until the other boy, Jimmy, tired, Ron soon discovered that the majority of the charms hurled at him had very little power. 

Just moments ago, a Tickling Charm had hit him squarely in the chest, and, instead of causing back-breaking hysterical laughter, it inflicted a feather-light nudge, which became thoroughly irritating. Ron, deciding he'd better act soon so as to not raise Jimmy's hopes of winning, whispered a simple counter-curse and let loose a Disarming Spell. 

Jimmy's wand was wrenched from his grasp. Whimpering piteously, he sank to the floor, moistening the dinghy carpet with his tirade of helpless tears. 

"I…lost," he whispered hoarsely. 

Ron closed the distance between Jimmy and him with two languid strides. "It's okay, you've done your best. Remember, you're two years younger than me, and you'll have other chances," he said kindly. He pulled Jimmy to his feet, tussled the coarse hair fondly, and silently offered his gratitude to whichever wizard or witch that had arranged the dueling partners.

Match—Ronald Weasley

**************

Snape made sure to pause and glare menacingly whenever he stooped to pour Revealing Potion into the narrow phials placed in front of each person present. 

When the vat he held in his hands was empty, and all the phials were accounted for, he busied himself by bustling about the room one final time, pupils dilated, eyeing each of the occupants with utmost suspicion. As the sinister Potions Master passed by, Moody deliberately leaned back in his chair, under guise of yawning, and stuck out both of his feet. Remus, who was seated next to Moody, poked him reprovingly. Pouting unhappily, he obliged, and tucked his feet grudgingly back under the table, thus sparing Snape the potential humiliation.

"What are you lumps waiting for? Drink it!" Pivoting sharply on his heel, black robes billowing flamboyantly behind him (cuffing several people across the face as they did so), Snape stalked to his seat, which he sank stonily into. 

 Moody raised the phial to his nose skeptically, whispering to Remus, "Does Albus really expect us to trust Snape with this?" He shook the potion slightly, causing it to tip dangerously near the flared mouth of the container. 

"No, he really plans to have everyone fling it at Snape's hair," Remus said, pouring the contents of the beaker into his mouth. He blanched at the acidity of the liquid, but bravely swallowed the last mouthful. "See? All done. Am I blue?"

"No," Moody answered, "I'll go now." He downed the potion in one large swig.

"You're safe, too," Remus said, before Moody could ask. 

"That, I was sure of. No Death Eater lays hands on Alastor Moody without losing them," Moody growled, his husky voice streaked with triumphant satisfaction. 

Remus flung his head back, laughing, when a series of crashes, followed by a collective gasp from the opposite side of the room, directed his attention elsewhere. The majority of the wizards seated within touching distance of Arthur Weasley were scrunched together in a tiny nook by the door, muttering ominously among themselves and squeezing together even tighter every few seconds. 

"I'll be darned. Surefire blue, no doubt about it," Moody said, observing from the corner of his eye the Order members in the corner who were viewing Arthur as if he were a contagious bacterium. "You ninnys, scared of a little blue coloring?" Moody chided scathingly. He made no effort to conceal his disgust at their cowardice.

"We're merely _removing_ ourselves from the immediate area, in case the curse is readily transmitted," a short, balding wizard said resentfully, puffing his chest out haughtily with an air that reminded Remus strongly of Percy. _Perhaps, Percy learnt it from Pillsbunt, _Remus considered humorously, leaving Moody to offer the tightly knit cluster by the door a collection of well-practiced intimidating glowers.

Needless to say, they dispersed rapidly, moving with speed only Moody could bring about, each taking a new seat well away from Arthur and sporting red faces.

Remus's eyes flickered involuntarily to where Snape was sitting, watching the unfolding incident without even a smidgeon of surprise or bewilderment, then rested on Arthur, who was, in morbid fascination, turning his hands over unhurriedly and picking at the blue coating, as if it were nothing more than an easily removed shell. 

"You do know what this means, Arthur?" 

"Yes," Arthur said flatly, "I've got some sort of curse on me that I'm not aware of, and it might've turned me, unknowingly, spy against the Order."

"Can you recall anything unusual that's happened to you recently?" Dumbledore paused, mulling this over thoroughly. "Anything that affects how you feel, or your behavior…?"

Blushing furiously under the piercing stares he received from the Order, Arthur said, slowly, as if in deep thought, "Well…I've noticed that often, once or twice a day, I end up somewhere, not remembering how I got there…does that make sense? One moment I'll be in the lavatory, then, suddenly, I'll be in the backyard. When I ask Molly where I was the hour before, she says that she doesn't know; only that my dial on our clock points at any random space between the actual places."  Arthur bit his lip hesitantly. "And there's always that strange tingling sensation…like poking needles."

Hearing the last revelation, Dumbledore jerked, but caught himself and masked the motion, so that it was scarcely noticeable. 

"Is this a serious worry of ours, then?" Mundungus interjected, his broad shoulders hunched forlornly over his knees. His lips were set together in a thin line of strain, white around the outer edges. 

"Very serious," Dumbledore said, voice ringing with conviction, "Voldemort has found some sort of spell that allows him to fully control Arthur, at periods of times, and that greatly heightens the Dark Side's advantage. But knowing that Arthur's been under a curse is only a minor discovery—we need to know exactly which one—and there are hundreds of different ones, ancient, forgotten, and newly developed—to perform a neutralizing countercurse." 

Snape, who had been brooding in his chair while this exchange was going on, snapped upright, his black eyes calculating and shrewd as they locked firmly onto 

Dumbledore. "There _is_ a way, Albus. There is, but the chances of…death are great." 

"Whatever path we choose to tread, Severus, holds death near. I was thinking along the lines of the _Copularus _charm." Dumbledores long fingers, gnarled, withered, and stricken with arthritis, interlocked over his desk. Despite their feeble, inept appearance, they were capable of twirling themselves into beyond comprehensible motions as they engaged in spellwork, making no work of forming massive shield barricades ten wizards would fight to put up. 

Mundungus looked straight at these fingers as he spoke, ashamed, "Albus, I've never heard of that spell; never, in all my years." 

Remus did not join in the murmurs of consent that rose around the room. His mind was whirring, working faster than he had ever forced it to in the past. If this was the spell he thought it was, it might be his opportunity to save Sirius—

"Perhaps it would be made clearer if I shared with the Order this selection." Dumbledore levitated a thick volume onto his desk, from a burdened bookshelf behind him. 

Carefully, treating the yellowed, warped pages like the finest porcelain, he flipped to the last section, clearing his throat and reading the contents in a deep, sonorous voice that one couldn't help but abandon all tasks to listen to. 

The Copularus charm, Creator Unknown, originates from the Middle East, during the Magical Dark Ages, when the demand for such a charm was overwhelmingly high. The number of memory-altering and controlling curses (ie. Imperious) were at record highs, causing severe imbalance within the Ministry and between the Dark and Light sides of wizardry. Though not a permanent or satisfactory solution, Copularus allows a given victim Clear Headedness, a remembrance of Self. In relation to the controlling curses, it does not prevent the victim from carrying out the tasks the caster commands him to do (See Self-Control-Tactics, 34); it merely lets him see through his own eyes and lets him think through his own mind. Again, he has no control over his actions; only his thoughts. Once released to the public, who turned it's back against the charm that failed to fulfill their needs, a series of Small Riots, put down by the Hit Squad, arose. The Dark Ages passed, and the charm was forgotten, until now, when I sit alone in the Dark, recording these words for future use.

_Beware, and perform with Restraint: Two parties are necessary for this charm to be invoked—a subject, the cursed victim, and the transmitter, preferably one deeply rooted to the subject, and of Iron Will. The transmitter must maintain physical contact at all times during the spell; drastic Consequences shall arise otherwise. The subject must call forth the pivotal memories of His/Her Life, that stand out in His/Her Mind. The transmitter receives these memories, and remember them as His/Her own. If a Controlling or Mind-Altering curse is cast upon the subject afterwards, He/She will know, and the things He/She are forced to do, or forget, are acknowledged by both individuals; the subject and the transmitter. The Copularus charm is broken when the first curse placed after it is countered. _

"I understand now," Mundungus said slowly, continuing to stare unblinkingly at Dumbledores fingers. "We cast this charm on Arthur, then we wait…and see if Voldemort calls him or forces him to do something. We'll hear the incantation for the curse he uses. And then we will know." 

"Brilliant," Remus whispered softly to Moody. "This could work; it has drawbacks and risks, but it just—might—work."

"Do you agree to it?" 

"Yes, I do," Arthur answered solemnly, the blue tint his skin had taken on fading slightly, so that patches of healthy pink shone through in places. 

"You will be released from the curse soon," Dumbledore said softly, his tone a mixture of compassion and determination. "But I am forced to erase your memory of this meeting—if you, no matter how unwillingly, tell Voldemort of the charm, hope is lost—for you, and your life. Do I have your consent for that, too?"

"Yes, you do." Arthur answered each question bluntly, without fear or vacillation. 

"Do I have your permission to be transmitter?"

"Yes, you do."

"Meeting adjourned, Remus and Alastor, you two stay behind with me. We'll begin immediately. _Obliviate, Arthur Weasley." _

*********

A/N: And as for that one line that mentioned that Remus though the Copularus charm could save Sirius—that will also be covered in the next chapter. Please offer any feedback and comments and criticism you may have! 


	12. Part Eleven: A Walk in My Shoes

**Vengeance So Sweet**

**Author**: VyingQuill

**Spoilers**: All four books

R**ating**: PG-13

**Category**: Drama/Action/Adventure

**Summary**: Fifth year fic centered around Harry. With Voldemort's return to power, a struggle begins between the Light and Dark Side. Harry finds himself in quite a few undesirable situations. Suspense, betrayal, Death Eaters, shaky plots to bring down Voldemort, and all sorts of new stuff.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter 11: A Walk in My Shoes 

Nervously, hands wet with perspiration so heavy that his wand slid between his palms, Harry tilted his head up to the transparent ceiling, scanning the leering faces above him for a friendly one. There! Sitting next to Hermione, conversing with a seedy looking bearded man, was Ron, a pen in his right hand, and a memo pad in the other. Harry's face split into a relaxed grin as Ron scribbled something on the pad, took a handful of glinting Knuts from the man, and turned to Hermione, waving the money under her upturned, disapproving nose. 

After a series of duels, varying in difficulty, Harry, exhausted, had stumbled into his room at the Leaky Cauldron the preceding night, taken a hot shower, and visited briefly with Ron and Hermione, who were in the next two rooms. In a blur of time, which failed to surpass even five minutes, the trio exchanged stories of their tidings throughout the day. Ron, after Harry had sheepishly confessed that he had made it to the finals, remained composed, free from the grip of jealousy. 

Hermione was full of nothing but ecstatic delight at Harry's news, but was prompt in her return to sympathizing with Ron when he began grumbling about his very able Second Round dueling partner and his luck, or lack thereof, at getting paired with him. 

It had come as a strange sort of respite that Ron hadn't made it to the finals; Harry would have gladly switched positions with his friend, but his mind melted with involuntary relief at the realization that he was spared a duel against Ron. 

He had returned to his own room with a lighter heart, feeling that he was, with the support of Ron and Hermione, and the extra practice the previous rounds had given him, invincible. 

All the efforts and work, hope and fatigue, had boiled down to this. 

Round One, and Round Two, of the Finals had passed, Harry escaping with only minor scrapes and bruises, cumulating with a broken arm he received as an aftershock of a curse during the Third Round. The three rounds had sufficed in eliminating all but two of the contestants; Harry, and one other, who wasn't to be revealed until…now. 

Harry's back was to the door; he could hear the muffled footsteps and could feel the shift of the air behind him. Gathering his wits, he faced his fate squarely. 

He was blonde; his eyes were the color of day-old hickory smoke; he was thin as an oak sapling, but strong. _He _was Draco Malfoy, whom Harry greeted with frosty detachment. 

Harry remained unsurprised. With the knowledge, and, maybe, love, Lucius Malfoy had indisputably passed on to Draco concerning the Dark Arts, it was only expected that he would surface, to battle Harry for the ultimate victory.

A flat screen lowered itself into the cubicle, flashing brilliant red as it counted down from thirty. 

Harry panicked. "Where is the referee?"

"Didn't you know, Potter? The final match isn't supervised by a referee. They don't trust a ref to overcome his own bias, make fair calls; all we have watching us is a recording camera—and the audience," Draco said, with superior aloofness. He turned to the screen, where the count was down to ten. "Ten seconds, and you're out." 

"As long as you don't try any Unforgivables, I'm okay," Harry returned grimly, his stomach twisting into tight knots at his own harsh words. 

Softly, his expression unreadable, Draco answered, "I will win." 

Numbers flitted rapidly across the screen, a blinding array of ghastly color. 

Nine…Eight…Seven…

"I will destroy you."

Six….Five…Four…

"I will take the title in the Malfoy family name."

Three…

"Uphold my fathers honor."

Two…

"Support the cause."

One…

"I _will _win, Potter."

************

Ten minutes later, Harry was beginning to feel the effects of intense prolonged dueling, and he could tell by Draco's ragged breathing that he was, too. 

_I've got to end it now, _Harry told himself. He dodged around a streak of red hurtling towards his head, and continued evading Draco's offense while making no effort to retaliate. 

This perturbed Draco, who paused between his curses to peer curiously at Harry, his malice forgotten for that one brief minute. 

Sensing an opportunity, Harry released the force he had been storing inside of him, directing it behind a single _Expelliarmus. _

Draco's slight body slammed into the unyielding wall, which was not cushioned, like the thickly padded stucco of the duels before the Finals.

Harry reached out to catch Draco's wand—only—only…there _was _no wand sailing through the air, no wand lying despondently by his feat, a final breath of despair. 

However, there was a wand gripped in his own hands, and a wand held firmly between Draco's fingers.

Harry's jaw dropped open in disbelief. "The _Disarming_ Spell, Malfoy! Why aren't you _disarmed_?" 

Weakly, his neck bent at a strange angle, Draco sneered at Harry, blood oozing from a spot behind his head and trickling down between his thin eyebrows. "Poor stupid 

Potter," he spat, struggling to right himself. He leaned against the wall, his breath rattling against his throat as he spoke. "Sticking spell." He touched a finger to his mouth, wincing as he drew blood. 

"Are you winning now? Sticking spell or no, one more curse will finish you. You lose." Harry stepped closer to Draco, who was fighting to pull himself to his feet, in vain. 

Out of mercy, or out of desire to see Draco squirm, Harry decided to refrain from cursing him, for the moment, and contented himself with watching Draco fall back onto the ground each time he stood up. 

"Give it up, you can't even stand properly," Harry said, feeling a triumph that four years' worth of torture by Draco Malfoy brought about. 

Draco turned his face up at Harry, his eyes glittering with malice and hate. "No. I will win."

Harry laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "I've had enough of your arrogance." He aimed his wand deftly, at a patch of dried blood on Draco's robes. Dimly, he could hear the increasing volume as the crowd anticipated the end of the duel. 

Suddenly, Draco directed his wand at himself, muttering something under his breath and recoiling as a jagged line of black hit his chest. 

Harry was completely taken aback. 

"Do you know what that spell I cast on myself was?" 

Harry didn't like the look of utter contempt and victory that Draco was giving him. He took a step backwards. 

"A Dark spell. It's meant for your enemies, but in this case, it serves me well, knowing how _good_, and _noble_, and _great_, and _compassionate_ Harry Potter is."

Harry's heart sank, and he felt an inexplicable urge to cover his ears and curse Malfoy out of oblivion right then and there.

"You can Stupefy me, you can curse me all you want—" Malfoy paused, running his bloody tongue along his parched lips. "But you will also kill me in doing it." 

Harry's mind went blank. Was there such a spell in existence? "Do you mean that any spell I hit you with will _kill_ you?"

Draco answered with a smirk. "You thought I was helpless…and I am. I am completely at your mercy, much as I hate to admit it. Kill me, and win the Tourney, or forfeit. Time's a-wasting, Potter." 

************* 

"Remus, Alastor, dim the lights. No matter what happens during the process, do _not _interfere. Make sure my hand is _always_ on Arthur's shoulder." 

Remus hastened to pick up his wand. Moody beat him to it, and, grinning impishly, stuck out his chunk of a tongue. 

An overwhelming black presence cloaked the room, suppressing the squabble that promised to take place between Remus and Moody.

"_Fargurat l cya, forus un memorius, blavn Copularus." _A fountain of blue rays shot through the pervading darkness, tendrils of wispy light curling up around 

Dumbledores head and body, wreathing him and Arthur in a mass of pulsating magic.

He knew he was powerful, yes, and he knew he was capable of great things, certainly, and he knew of the miracles performed through will and human spirit. Yet Dumbledore, who had, in his youth, encountered violent demons, and slain the very body of horror and fear, was stunned, and possibly frightened, by the spasms that seized his body, contorted his face. 

He who had experienced pains that measured to the ends of the world, and pitted his strength and wisdom against the conquering forces of sin—he who had the humbleness to know he knew nothing, had enough courage to pierce the darkest of nights…almost lost control to the turmoil that ensued after the incantation was said. 

It wasn't physical, nor was it mental; it was a deeply rooted wound opening somewhere inside of him, welling up from his soul and being—and amidst that, an ancient, unknown emotion bubbled forth, rushing from another spirit*, colliding and mixing with himself. He felt the…raw animalness and anger and resentment this spirit held against him, resisting his tugging as he coaxed it to open up to him. It did not comply; it fought. 

Resorting to force, Dumbledore applied himself to breaking the spirit, to wrench it apart and know everything it held within itself. 

He was not thinking anymore. He was acting on pure instinct, guided by a supernatural force, and slowly, _agonizingly _slowly, it gave. 

Memories, beliefs, unspoken secrets—these were released, and so much more. In that split second, everything was bared to Dumbledore, and he learned of the ambitions, qualms, and values of the other soul, more than the strongest trust bridge would reveal. 

~~~~~

_A blast of air, coupled by hungry wails. Where am I? What's that noise? In front of me, a woman._

_"He's an Arthur."_

_ Arthur? What was that? _

_"Hello Arthur, my lovely baby. Welcome to your life."_

_I am confused. Am I an Arthur? _

_"I'm your Mommy, Arthur." The woman looks at me, a strange look in her eyes._

_I am most definitely an Arthur. But now…I think, what's a Mommy? _

_"Are you hungry, dear baby?"_

_I am very hungry. _

_~~~~_

_It is my birthday today. I am five, Mommy said so, and she is always right, even when I am not. It is a small celebration—me, Mommy, and my Daddy. There is a cake, there are presents. _

_"Happy Birthday to you, dear baby."_

_I am happy. _

_But what is that noise? It makes an infernal racket, and I hear it often. It trembles in the air, a series of long, high notes that come from a black box. Daddy picks it up. He smiles. _

_I make myself smile, imagining I look like Daddy. He talks into the box; a stream of words I do not know. They are long words. ._

_"Be back later."_

_Wait. Where are you going, Daddy? It is my birthday. I am five. Please don't go away. _

_"Don't worry, Arthur, we'll open your presents together." _

_But what about Daddy?_

_I am not happy. Something is falling from my eyes; are they broken?_

_~~~~~_

_"I'll be there. The second you swing your legs onto that broom, I will be there, in the crowd, cheering you on," Daddy says. "But I have some business to attend to first."_

_Buzy-ness? What is that? Is it so important that you had to miss my first Quidditch game? I guess so—Daddy wasn't there. _

_I fell off of my broomstick._

_~~~~~~_

_I am lonely. _

_Mommy died._

_ Daddy said it was because of tube-locusts, or something like that. It was a big word. He said it was a lung disease. I know what locusts are; I imagine big grasshoppers crawling into Mommy's lungs…and that's tube-locusts._

_We were sad together, then. And a few days later, I was sad alone, because Daddy wasn't sad anymore. _

_~~~~~~_

********

"I forfeit," Harry said. 

There was no point in prolonging the duel. He knew he was taking the bait for Draco's trap, but there was little else he could do. Losing the duel meant nothing to him; he would still have his pride, his friends. He suspected that Malfoy had far more at stake than he did, and so, he threw down his wand without reluctance or remorse. 

And so, the Tourney was ended, and Draco was named the Underage Dueling Champion. 

Lucius Malfoy, Harry noticed, was not present during the awards ceremony. 

Ludo Bagman presented the trophy and prize money grudgingly, openly disappointed at Harry's loss. As Draco graced the crowd with a final bow, Harry saw the grey eyes flicker momentarily in his direction, glimmering with unmistakable gratitude. 

Harry accepted his loss quietly, revealing to no one what had truly happened. The tape recordings, viewed later by Ludo and the Tourney officials, showed no foul play—Draco had whispered the spell so quietly that it wasn't heard. 

When the story was released to the press, however, Ludo mentioned that Harry had seemed to _willingly_ give up his wand, dropping it of his own free will rather than having it taken from him. 

The following morning, when the Daily Prophet was dropped onto the Weasley breakfast table, the headlines read 'Potter Comes Out Second—On Purpose?' 

The article detailed everything that happened in the tapes, and concluded with '_Rita Skeeter, special correspondent, can safely assume that while Potter had the ability to win, he voluntarily handed the title to Draco Malfoy, wishing to draw no more press attention to himself. He has shown the traits of a true hero, in the simple act of repressing his true power and keeping the hopes of his less-talented opponent intact. However, petitions are circulating the wizarding community, demanding that Potter be recognized for his selfless act, and be named the Underage Dueling Champion.' _

********

Dumbledore gave a small sigh, and fell back in his chair, arms dangling by his sides. "It's done." 

"What happened?" Remus asked curiously, immediately scolding himself for not using better judgment in timing. _Dumbledore is totally worn-out, and all you can do is slouch around questioning him. _

"I delved into his memories," Dumbledore said straightforwardly. He burrowed his head resignedly into his arms. "Some were…not happy. But others were very happy," he added. 

"Pardon me for asking…" 

"Pardoned." The elder man's tone was not reprimanding, nor was it encouraging. It was simply there; existent, but monotonous. 

"Why'd you have to go into his memories for the charm to work?" Remus cursed whatever gene he had inherited that made him so inquisitive and blunt.

It took a while for Dumbledore to reply, but, after a long silence, he did. "You might recall that the 'transmitter' is also able to see what is happening to the cursed person…is able to see out of the victim's very eyes. In order for that to happen, a bond has to be formed—and by sharing his innermost secrets and memories, I become…I suppose 'one' is a an adequate word…I become _one_ with him."

"Ah." Remus straightened swiftly, motioning to the door. "Shall I get a Pepper-up Potion for you? You look like you might need one."

Dumbledore smiled benignly at Remus. "That would be lovely."

Remus placed his hand on the brass doorknob and twisted, when—

"Voldemort. He's calling me." Arthur's eyes had snapped open, and were darting back and forth in their sockets, glazed and paranoid. "I must go." 

"How about getting a few Death Eater's for me?" Moody suggested eagerly. 

"If Voldemort doesn't tell him to do it, then he can't," Remus reminded him, "Since he's under an some kind of controlling spell."

Moody grumbled, moving aside as Arthur strode purposefully past him. "Well, we can't have _all_ the luck."

"That's where you're wrong. We'll need all the luck we can get," Remus countered, with complete sincerity. "So good luck, Arthur Weasley." 

And the three men were silent, recognizing the gravity of the situation they were in. 

**A/N: As for the Arthur memories, I only put in a few on his childhood—this isn't an Arthur-fic or anything, and all I wanted was to give you guys a taste for his life. And I know my characterization of Moody was weird—he's a sardonic, darkly humorous kind of guy…**

**I hope it wasn't *too* disappointing that Ron and Harry didn't go up against each other—from the very beginning, I planned it to be Harry and Draco, and didn't know how much you readers wanted to see Harry and Ron against each other until you reviewed! Hope you liked the chapter :-) Please review with any input or questions you may have. **


	13. Part Twelve: Call of the Night

**Vengeance So Sweet**

**Author**: VyingQuill

**Spoilers**: All four books

R**ating**: PG-13

**Category**: Drama/Action/Adventure

**Summary**: Fifth year fic centered around Harry. With Voldemort's return to power, a struggle begins between the Light and Dark Side. Harry finds himself in quite a few undesirable situations. Suspense, betrayal, Death Eaters, shaky plots to bring down Voldemort, and all sorts of new stuff.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N: I've decided, since my updates are few and far between, to have a Chapter Recap thingy at the beginning of each chapter, summarizing the important happenings in the chapter before, so you all don't forget the *important* things. And since this is the first one, I'm going to have to go over EVERY main thing since the Prologue, so, if you think you remember all the details, skip on to the actual chapter, but, if you need a refresher, read on! Oh, and I'll have my Thank-You section in the next installment, since, with the Recap, this is already a long update. As always, I want to thank ALL of my reviewers, especially Whether Rose, who's great reviews got me to finish this chapter, and Ashley, who continues faithfully reviewing each chapter. Official thank-you's coming soon! **

**********

**Prologue: **Nothing much here—introduces Harry, and mentions that Vernon eats chicken and meatballs for lunch :-) 

**Chapter One**: Harry sends out letters, and learns that Arthur Weasley has disappeared, and that the Dursleys have gone and got themselves bankrupt *good riddance*. Ends with a short scene of a 'mystery man' (which, by the way, is obviously Arthur) stumbling through the woods.

**Chapter Two**: The Dursleys, and Harry, move into a cheap, shabby apartment. Harry meets a little boy name Theo Lestrange, who, with his lisp, seems innocent enough. And of course, Theo leads Harry into a death trap. 

-Hermione finds Mr. Weasley on her porch, the Weasleys are happy, and Sirius has memories of his childhood.

-And, in his conversation with Dumbledore, we learn more about Arthur's disappearance— that it wasn't a Memory Charm, or lying, when he said that he didn't remember what happened to him. 

**Chapter Three**: Harry finds himself _Petrificus Totalus_'ed, a Death Eater wants to take him to Voldie, then he is rescued by Mrs. Figg who *gasp* turns out to be a witch. They fly to the Burrow, where Harry takes chess lessons from Ron.

-Remus attends an Order of the Phoenix meeting (the first of many) where they start hatching plans…'plans' being as follows: Voldemort plans to attack a magically weak family, the LeRoys. 

-The Order wants to send in four decoys to take the place of the original LeRoys, stationing Aurors all around the house, and taking all the Death Eaters off guard. The reason they don't leave the real LeRoys in the house, and station Aurors around, is because they are too _weak_ to even defend themselves. The Order hope to catch a few Death Eaters for info, and eliminate the rest. However, Jordan LeRoy is a mere eleven year old boy, with black hair and green eyes. Who do they think of to take his place than…Harry! Remus tells Harry about the plan, Harry blows up at him.

-Dumbledore reveals that the reason he agreed for Harry to do this is b/c it would be better to have him used to hordes of Death Eaters and tight situations, before the real danger set in.

- Voldemort is not expected to be at the attack, since it was only a random killing raid. 

**Chapter Four**: Harry agrees to take part in the 'plan', he has a week of special prep training, and the actual attack takes place. Things go horribly awry; Voldemort somehow knows of the plan (You readers must know that it was Mr. Weasley who was leaking, under a spell). He brings in way more reinforcements than expected, and goes to the LeRoy house himself. He enters the house, slams Sirius into a wall, kills Lorrie, send Mundungus smashing through the window, smashes Harry's PortKey (which each member of the 'plan' carried), preventing his escape. Sirius sacrificies his own Portkey, throwing it to Harry, who disappears. 

**Chapter Five**: We find out that Sirius is kidnapped by a Death Eater.

**Chapter Six**: Harry sneaks into an Order meeting, finds out Sirius's predicament, which is only worsened by Snapes news that he is probably locked away in the deepest, darkest part of some labyrinth that is Voldemort's lair. 

-Scene switches to Arthur, leaving the meeting and walking down the hall, before mysteriously appearing at his house, having no idea what had just happened. 

**Chapter Seven**: Harry has a birthday party, and he takes a focus factor test. He breaks the measuring tool (surprise surprise :-)

-Sirius meets and talks with the Dark Lord, they get very pissed at each other. 

**Chapter Eight**: Harry's focus factor is 439. Voldemorts is unknown, Dumbledore refuses to give out his number, but says that the highest score, before Harry's, was his father, at around 300. 

-Peter sneaks into Sirius's cell, they each take Polyjuice. Sirius becomes Peter, Peter becomes Sirius, Sirius escapes, and Peter meets his death fate. What more could you want of the rat? ;-)

-Voldemort finds out about Snape being traitor.

**Chapter Nine**: Snape tells Dumbledore about Voldemort saying that 'he had connections within the Light himself', Dumbledore instructs him to brew a potion that will turn the drinker blue if he has a curse put on him.

- Harry goes back to the Weasleys, after a stay at St. Mungos (which was after he broke the measuring tool and passed out). He and Ron decide to enter a Dueling Tourney. Hermione passes on this opportunity. Harry and Ron had decided to duel Doubles, but Ron backs out at the last moment and signs up for Singles. Harry is sad. 

**Chapter Ten**: Harry duels Flint, we get a chance to see some of his extraordinary powers, Ron wins his duel only because he was dueling some poor third year kid, and Arthur turns blue from the Revealing Potion. 

-The Copularus charm is revealed. Since Dumbledore already knows it's some kind of controlling curse cast on Arthur, he decides that the Copularus charm would be for the best. It allows the subject to have no control over what he is commanded to do or say, but he'll _know_ what he is doing and saying. Also, Dumbledore, the transmittor, will see what is happening. He figures that, when Arthur gets called to Voldermort, he'll hear the incantation Voldemort uses for the spell, thus enabling them to perform a counter-spell. 

**Chapter Eleven**: Harry duels Malfoy in the final round, and is winning until Malfoy performs a Dark Spell, intended for use on enemies, and casts it on himself. Any spell that hits him will now kill him. Harry forfeits. 

-The Copularus charm is performed, Arthur has some sad memories. 

Chapter 12: Call of the Night 

It was strange, Arthur reflected, seeing from his own eyes while having his body controlled by an outside source. 

At first, not believing that his will couldn't overpower the curse, he had tried to stop and turn back, over and over again, at frequent intervals. When his labor bore no fruit, he ceased trying and obeyed the force against him that pushed him forward, closer with each step to meeting his possible end. 

Arthur, thinking that he would wind up walking the distance to Voldemorts lair, made careful note of the passing landmarks; exceptionally twisted trees, grubby plants, an occasional heap of rocks, but found that it came to no avail when he vanished into the encircling gloom, to be deposited right in front of—

_Oh Lord, _Arthur gasped, trembling as he opened his eyes. He was kneeled on top of a pair of satin lined Oriental slip-ons, from which a foul odor was steadily secreted. Making sure his face was turned away from the watchful eyes above him, he gagged, begging his stomach to keep down the leftover meatloaf he had downed a few hours ago. 

"Arthur Weasley." 

Arthur felt his head being inclined upwards. His eyes clashed with a pair of burgundy orbs hovering on a pallid canopy. 

_Voldemort. _Arthur's mind reeled in terror, colliding haphazardly into different parts of his skull. _What to do, what to do…_

He was in the process of contemplating ways to escape without making it obvious when he realized that Voldemort was whispering something indistinguishable, his wand, held in brittle fingers, pointed at Arthur's forehead. 

It had to be the curse Dumbledore was suspicious of. It _had _to be the curse that was placed on him when he had disappeared those long weeks ago. But no…he hadn't heard the incantation Voldemort used, and, he reasoned, if he hadn't heard it, then Dumbledore, who was sure to be experiencing the happenings with him, hadn't heard it either. All was lost. The Copularus, the meticulous planning—they were dashed; shattered fragments of hope driving into his aching heart. 

Voldemort was questioning him now. Nothing of importance, but Arthur refused himself to answer anyways. 

"Is the Order making any future attacks?" 

"Yes." Arthur's breath stopped in his throat.

He hadn't been aware of any Order plans to attack. What was going on? What on earth had prompted that answer? 

He searched his mind frantically for any shard of remembrance.

None. 

He was certain in his conclusion that there were _no _planned Order attacks against the Death Eaters. 

Confusion fogging his mind, he plowed through the tirade of questions doggedly, barely hearing or comprehending his answers. 

"That will be enough. You are of no use. You are worthless. I was thick to think that you would have a well of answers for me; right in knowing that you would yield to my will, but wrong in the assumption that you had any real connections within the Order. Get out of my sight." Contempt and sheer disgust oozed from each harshly punctuated word. "_Finis Actum Abquememoria." _

Arthur almost collapsed with relief. The purpose of his mission was accomplished. The incantation. In a few hours time, with any luck, the curse would be lifted. 

He felt himself inching slowly away from Voldemort, his back to the door and his face to Voldemort, serving as a forced sign of respect, which he did not harbor. He wanted to throw something, or turn his back into that loathsome face, a thousand times over. 

Someone shoved him from behind, forcefully, falling over his own feet as he prostrated himself before Voldemort. Arthur strained his vision, but the ample cloak of the Death Eater did its job well, shadowing the features of the man. 

"Speak."

"M'Lord, it is a petty question I ask of you, but they pushed me to it—"

"_Speak."_

"Lord, his body—Black's body—it's been rotting in that cell of his, and, even with him, and his head, in that bag, the smell penetrates _everything_. It thickens the air, it knocks out any guards we post…please, m'Lord, we must dispose of it…"

"Dunderheads," Voldemort said, gripping the arms of his heavily jeweled throne. "Must I tell you to do everything? Of _course_ I wanted his maggot-infested body dumped in a river somewhere, buried under a load of garbage, _anything_. Not lying, rotting, in _my presence_." 

Shaking from head to toe, the Death Eater kissed the satin shoes repeatedly, then left the room, turning his back only when he reached the hallway.

Arthur, who was, a few seconds ago, desperate to escape the pervading darkness Voldemort's simply being there brought about, stood rooted to the spot, unable to move. 

_Black's body? He…his rotting body? Can he be dead? _Arthur had never been particularly close to Sirius, during his school years and his adulthood, but he was well informed of the immensely close bond between the falsely convicted madman and The Boy Who Lived. The greater amount of his sorrow was for Harry, and how Harry would react, and the grief Harry would feel. 

Harry. Sirius. 

The ties between godson and godfather were slashed, cruelly, ripped apart by none other than _Voldemort_, who had severed so many relationships before this one. 

"Why are you still here, Weaslely? Leave." Voldemort waved his hand dismissively at Arthur, who promptly disappeared.

He landed in front of Dumbledore's office, inches away from the nose of an ugly stone gargoyle. "Fizzing Whizbees." 

The gargoyle refused to move. Arthur tweaked its nose experimentally, wondering if the creature was malfunctioning. Grudgingly, the door opened, whistling slightly on its rusted hinges, revealing a room so ridiculously bright that it could be taken that the occupants' intent was to chase away sinister despair. 

Arthur, squinting at the change in lighting, stepped into the office, making out four shadowy shapes talking amongst themselves in a tight huddle by the desk. 

"I'm back," he croaked dryly. 

Dumbledore, Remus, and Moody met him warmly, but the fourth man, Severus Snape, was reluctant to do so. 

Arthur saw that all four faces were draped in solemnity, and, when Dumbledore spoke, his voice was low and urgent. "The good news, Arthur, is that we have discovered the spell. _Actum Abquememoria_—Acting without memory. It allows the caster to, at any random time they wish, control a specific person, who has no knowledge that he is under a spell, and has no memory of what he has done while under it. It's difficult to perform, but fairly simple to remove, which we will do so without hesitation." 

"Is it true that Sirius is dead?" Remus cut in hurriedly. "The surname Black isn't uncommon…could it have been another man? Yes, it must've been. Sirius wouldn't die. Sirius _couldn't_ die. Tell me you heard wrong, Arthur, tell me." 

Arthur gazed regretfully into Remus's eyes. 

"You're lying! _It can't be true_!" Remus grabbed Arthur's shoulders, and shook him forcefully. He was sobbing now, tears running violently down his taut cheeks. 

"_Liar," _he spat, then fled the room. 

Arthur's mouth dropped open, working itself into a furor as he tried to speak and redeem himself.

Dumbledore gave the younger man a small smile. "I know you were telling the truth. Just as you were telling the truth when Voldemort asked for information regarding any up and coming Phoenix attacks."

Arthur's eyes widened. He had forgotten all about that, in light of bigger revelations. "So I, once again, betrayed our side," he said, finally. 

"No," Dumbledore answered firmly. "You did not. You never did. But this time, it was false information we planted in your mind, that you believed to be true. This time, we will catch Voldemort unawares, and, this time, we will do damage to his forces with the element of surprise."

"Damn, you had me going," Arthur muttered, then collapsed heavily onto the floor. 

"Dear boy," Dumbledore said sympathetically, "That's the second time this summer you have need of Madame Pomfrey's assistance."

************(A few weeks later; the school year's already started, Arthur's curse has been lifted…and onwards!)********

"Where is he?" 

Ron stepped into the dimly lit Gryffindor common room, kicking off a pair of muddy shoes as he did so. Hermione, curled meekly by the fireplace, looked up at him with big, hopeful brown eyes. 

"Still outside," Ron sighed. "Wearing the same cloak and robe he was wearing during Sirius's funeral." 

"He needs to come in soon—that far into the Forbidden Forest, this late at night…" Hermione wrung her hands helplessly, knocking a checkered blanket off of her lap and standing up. "He needs to come inside now."

"He doesn't want to. It's no use pushing him," Ron said, grabbing Hermiones wrist as she passed by him. 

Hermione struggled to unclasp Ron's white fingers, but, realizing it was no good, relaxed, and instead crossed the room, head bowed to her chest. She stopped at the foot of the stairwell leading to the girls' dorms, and made as if to turn back around. Ron waited expectantly, but she, instead, slammed her hand onto the railing and fled up the tower, her stockinged feet making only the lightest of muffled thumps on the wooden steps. 

"Alright, then," Ron said softly into the empty room. A slight breeze, drifting in from a barely open window, succeeded in extinguishing the last flickering tongue of flame in the fireplace, drenching the room, and Ron, in mute blackness.

*********

_Ow. _Harry shifted slightly, moving away from a particularly large thorn that had thrust itself into his knee. His robes stuck to the spot where he had yanked the plant out; he was bleeding.

Yes, he was bleeding, and his godfather was dead.

Dead. It was such a simple word; a mere syllable. Dead. _Dead._

Mars was bright tonight. 

That's what the gray centaur, whom he had intercepted on his way to the Sirius's burial place, had said. 

As he lifted his eyes to the sky, and saw the brilliant point of red piercing the navy blue sky, he knew that it was true. 

Harry wondered if a bright Mars preceded every death. 

He despised Mars.

If he could, he would climb up to the fiery planet, carrying a vat of water over his shoulders, and smother it. 

Harry continued eyeing the sky for the next few minutes. When his neck ached from the strain, he lowered his gaze, until it was level with the tombstone in front of him. He scooted closer to it, wiping his dusty hands between folds of fabric before reaching out to touch the cold marble. 

'Killed by his own Godson.' That's what Harry had wanted inscribed on the stone. After all, _he_ was the reason Sirius sacrificed himself, and the ultimate reason why Sirius was gone. 

The funeral had been on the same day the Hogwarts year had started; September first. 

It had been a small, private gathering, with only the closest and dearest of Sirius's friends attending, and all that had been buried was an empty coffin, containing a single rose, since the body was almost impossible to recover. 

Harry had been the one to throw the first handful of rich dirt onto the polished coffin lid. 

He hadn't cried then, he hadn't cried after, and he had yet to shed tears for Sirius. And on that cold night, nose pressed against the smooth marble, he wept, his fresh tears slipping off a wilted bouquet of flowers and onto the dry ground. 

A good deal later, Harry pushed himself off of the ground, using his hands to wipe away any telltale droplets that still lingered about his flushed cheeks. 

He felt different; lighter and emptier, as if someone had plucked his heart out and wrung away half of the grief locked within its chambers. 

He took a deep breath, savoring the icy nips the winds dealt him as he fought his way back to Hogwarts castle, swells of the brittle, autumn leaves that carpeted the forest floor whirling in his wake. 

*******

"In you go," the Fat Lady said promptly, swinging open to admit entrance to Harry. He thanked her, and stepped into the common room. 

The fires had been put out already; he figured that the night had already progressed into its latest hours, around midnight. 

Harry unclasped his cloak, throwing it onto what looked like an armchair, and wandered idly up the stairs to the dorms. He opened the door and peered cautiously into the room, starting when he noticed that it wasn't just the moonlight that offered him light to see by. 

Ron had squeezed his lanky body into a corner, and was leaning over a chessboard, a small candle charmed to hover near his head. 

"Still up?" Harry shut the door, and padded into the room. 

"Was worrying about you," came the stiff reply. 

"I'm sorry," Harry said somberly, standing awkwardly with his hands folded behind his back. 

Ron was silent, busying himself with moving his queen horizontally across the board. "If I was playing someone, this is where he would have lost." Ron motioned to a square of vacant carpet next to him. Relieved, and curious, Harry lowered himself onto the indicated area. 

"Murphy's Mate. Fantastic tactical ploy." Ron reset the chess pieces, positioning them in various spots around the board. "What do you make of the situation for Black here?"

"No weakness. It's not very likely that the white pieces would win," Harry said, after scanning the board briefly.

"Yes, but what if I did _this_?" Ron moved the black pawn forward one block, directly in front of Harry's rook. 

Harry was dumbfounded. "You—you would lose another piece. That sure wouldn't help your game." 

"Make your move, then."

Harry's rook closed the gap between Ron's pawn, taking it so viciously that it left a chip in the gleaming wood. Too late, he noticed that his rook was now in a tight situation; Ron's knight was only one square away from it, diagonally, and in perfect position to avenge his pawn. 

"I'm taking your piece," Ron said, voicing Harry's thoughts. "Fair enough exchange; all the better for me—a pawn for a rook."

Harry narrowed his eyes suspiciously. How could an advanced player, such as Ron, miss this? By moving his knight, which had been guarding his king, he left the path clear for Harry to—

"Check." 

Ron's eyes glinted. With a deft flick of his wrist, he shifted his king one space to the side, into the corner of the board, where it was surrounded on both sides by knights. "I've _think_ I've escaped your check. What now?"

Harry bit his lip, rocking back and forth on his heels. It was true; what now? There had to be some other way to take advantage of the immobility of Ron's king. His gaze swept from his lower ranks, up and down the second row…where his knight resided, untouched. Harry grinned.

"Why bother, Weasley? That wasn't just a check; it was a checkmate." 

The black king bowed low, and threw down its crown. 

"That, Harry, was Murphy's Mate. Three simple moves, and you've got your opponent begging at your feet. Remember it," Ron said lightly, gathering up the chess pieces and dumping them aimlessly into his trunk, at the foot of his red velvet four-poster. "G'night."

"Night." Harry clambered wearily through his drapes and into his bed, spending the next few minutes hunting down a gray moth that had worked it's way into the boxed enclosure. It was a bit reminiscent of a Snitch, translucent wings catching the light every so often as it zipped past his ears in a soft whisper of wind. 

In a bout of unfortunate luck for the moth, it flew straight into his hand, which he swiftly cupped. 

"Out you go," he whispered, drawing the curtains aside and releasing the insect. He dimmed the lights and fell back into his thick blankets, ears alive with the indistinct hum of the night. 

************(Next day)***

"You know, you really are lucky that you get to skive off Divinition.…" Ron trailed off dolefully as the two boys came to a halt under the ladder that led up to the Divination attic. 

"Yeah, I guess," Harry said shortly. 

The Slytherin/Gryffindor Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson that had ended just a few minutes ago had been a tiring one, and tried his patience to no end. 

The instructor, Dumbledore, who had agreed to take on the duties of a teacher in addition to Headmaster, had made a prime example of Harry's Patronus, completely oblivious to his discomfort and unwillingness. 

He had been forced to endure two hours of mindless praise the Gryffindors had heaped upon him, and scathing remarks the Slytherins felt they couldn't go on without. Harry wasn't sure which one he preferred; Draco Malfoy, commenting on the unusual flab hanging off of his Patronus's flank, or Neville Longbottom, staring up at him with starry eyes and pleading for help every few seconds from 'the Great Harry Potter.'

"A special tutoring session with Dumbledore…do you know what I would give to have just one lesson?" Ron continued along this vein until Harry, catching a glimpse of his newly repaired watch, interrupted him and dashed off to meet Dumbledore in an abandoned classroom, for his daily lesson, leaving Ron to grudgingly clamber into the Divinations room. 

Harry grinned as he sped past a marching suit of armor, barely missing it as he turned the corner. If he had to compose a list of the benefits having a period with Dumbledore offered, eliminating Divinations off his schedule would round off the top three, right after 'being taught creative and powerful hexes to test on Malfoy', and 'having dueling skills refined'. 

He had made it to the third floor landing, without mishap, when the Bloody Baron, looking, in Harry's opinion, especially mangled and stained, drifted in front of him. 

"Harry Potter," the ghost rasped urgently. "You must fly with me! Come quick, there is evil at hand!"

**A/N: The chess move, Murphys Mate, will be VERY important to the story. I tried to explain it as best as I could with words…but if any of you want me to e-mail you the scheme (I'll scan a pic of Murphy's Mate into the comp., explaining each move and making it way, way clearer). Email me at vyingquill@yahoo.com, or tell me so in a review *coughcough* :-) **


End file.
